


Token Gesture

by Ook



Series: Token Gesture [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternative Universe-Fantasy, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Erik You Will Be Awkward, F/M, Genosha, Hurt/Comfort, It came from my brain, Lost Heirs and Brave Princesses, M/M, Past Abuse, References to off screen non con and sexual exploitation, Rescue, Sea sickness, Shaw You Will Be Creepy, Slavery, Spies, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira McTaggart and Erik Lensherr are both Swords of the Lady of Genosha, the Queen to be, Raven Darkholme. </p><p>When she hears they have a spying mission to Westchester, she asks them to find someone she met there, long ago.</p><p>Crowns! Royalty! Politics! Slavery!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> The author is, once again, writing as she likes, rather than as she knows.

Madame Darkholme is of course, Moira’s charge and her cause, but at times she is her curse, also. As soon as she heard that her favourite of the Lady’s Swords had been assigned to a routine intelligence patrol to Westchester, she was pestering her, and Erik, the commander of the mission, to find her Champion on it.  
“You have a champion, milady.” Erik pointed out. “The Lord Shaw serves your father's realm well.” He clamped his mouth shut then, refusing to comment on Shaw’s future aspirations to serve House Darkholme, in Raven’s royal self, somewhat more intimately, when the girl came of age, and Queen. Erik’s rivalry with Lord Shaw is well known, if not the cause of it.

“That he does.” Raven said. The girl- a true shifter, like the best of her House- already knows. Moira has had charge of her safety since her mother died and she returned from the Kingdom of Westchester. Moira’s chosen to interpret this somewhat more widely than most realise. Raven’s education in politics, espionage and statecraft is only the half of it.  
“But he is not my choice, not when I already appointed one.” The girl is close to pouting now. Moira and Erik both sigh. They’ve heard this one before. They are some of the few who know the details of the story of Raven’s long ago rescue and concealment.

“Milady… Raven. You were six. I don’t think it counts.” Moira says, gently.  
“He _saved my life_! The life of the Lady of G-“  
“And you’re not even sure of his name.” Erik cuts in. Raven eyes him with hostility. “Or his description, given that the man you want us to seek and reward for sheltering you was a child a few years older than you.” Raven’s chin shoots up, and her golden yellow eyes flash.  
“I gave him my token.” She says, firmly. “Find that, and you’ll find him. Genosha… _I_ owe him a debt.” She doesn’t say more. Both her Swords know the tale. The tale of a royal visitation to a peaceful fellow realm, that ended in near tragedy, with the Queen dead, and her daughter missing for a month.

The Queen had been murdered, along with her companions. Raven had run. Barely able to control her shifting then, she had grabbed onto the form of a nearby child, and fled the hired thugs with their knives, into the stews of Westchester’s capital city, where armed watchmen scarely dared to enter. From which she had emerged, when her father, along with his young friend, Lord Shaw, had come seeking vengeance for her death. It had been a month later, and Raven had been completely unharmed, thanks to the help of a young lad. A nameless boy, who had never come forward to claim the rewards offered by Shaw and her father.

“Assuming he’s kept your device, and assuming we’re able to find it without blowing away our cover as honest traders.” Erik’s voice is level, calm. He knows Genosha’s heir is practical, when she must be. “Yes. If you can.” She nods, clipped and firm. “Find him… I want to ask him...” She trails off. Erik raises a polite eyebrow.  
“To be your Champion.” Moira finishes for her. Raven blushes, purpling up. Erik ducks his head to hide a smile. His smiles have had unexpectedly poor receptions before now.  
“Well, possibly. He was a child, he might have grown up into someone else, someone not suitable, but he did say he _would._ ”

“That’s why you offered him your token.” Moira says, gently.  
“It was just a horse ornament, really. I didn’t have anything else to give him.”  
“Why Champion and not husband?” Erik demands, suddenly. Raven frowns. She bites off her words crisply.  
“My Swords, I’m not stupid. I’m to be Queen. My marriage is an act of duty I owe to my country. It’s far too large a thing to be thrown to a childhood rescuer, like some romantic reward in a tale. The Queen’s Champion can be a mere title, one that fits a pretty story. A gesture, a token.” 

Wordlessly, Erik bows. He understands duty, and sacrifices that cost childish dreams. And, perhaps, he respects the girls’ firm grip on her self; she’s not foolish, even if the task she’s set them is likely impossible. 

Moira sighs. And curtsies. She understands, too. Raven's eyes light up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The misson gets underway. And hits a snag.

Lord Shaw insists he has his own network of reliable informers, and as far as anyone knows, the Lord Protector does. Lady Frost says so, at any rate. But the King insists, in his turn, on double checking and obtaining information from independent sources whenever he can. So no information gathering stone will be left unturned on this mission, Erik swears it. Moira sighs again.

Sometimes this whole game of spies and secrets and shadows seems like a boy’s dream; something that should blow away at the lightest breath of air from the real world; the world of ordinary folk, who live to, well, live, as the games of crowns and kings rolls by above, below and all around them. Not that her opinion is the popular one, among the Swords. In any case, their main mission is to establish Erik and Moira’s covers as Magnus and Magda Eisenhardt. The happily married couple- Moira twitches at the mere thought of marriage to Erik- are to be genuine traders. In light, luxury goods, where possible- spices, silks, gems.

The Eisenhardts are indeed an obscure clan of merchant folk from the outlying borderlands of Genosha. The name is known, although not, perhaps all that well in Westchester. Magda and Magnus are to have journeyed, along with various “nephews” and “cousins” in the hope of making their names known through not-quite illegal trade with Westchester. The Eisenhardt trade clan are backed with money from a discreet noble family, so their deals will, hopefully, be considered sound, even though Edie and her dear, dear husband are dubious characters. They are people shady enough to be more interested in turning a profit than maintaining patriotic dislike of Westchester, but not actually criminal or treasonous, unless the payoff is very good. 

Such people have good reasons for needing discreet passage, service and goods, without actually declaring themselves spies who should be beheaded to every officer of the law or armed troop they meet. Such people will bring money and trade, rather than law enforcement officers in their wake. This will make them more popular. There is a steady trickle of goods and people between the two nation-states, and Erik wants to see it from the bottom, rather than cut his way through it from the top. He will learn more this way; people always talk more to a fellow conspirator than to an angry man with a sword. Strange, but true.

Some of the surreptitiousness in these deals is because relations between Westchester and Genosha remain strained after the death of the Queen fifteen years back. And some of it is hidden and secret for entirely different reasons. Illegal goods are being smuggled, criminals are being sheltered, and all to Genosha’s harm, whichever way the traffic moves.

Moira _will_ know why, and where, and who. What lurks in these depths? 

Erik had grumbled at having to work with youngsters. Moira had rolled her eyes and reminded him that he hadn’t been born fully grown, and also their cover of being a trade family might be more believable if they had, of, one or two relations. Erik had grumbled, but subsided when he was told they would all be Gifted. And they are. Angel has wings, and can spit acid, when she wishes. Sean has a voice that can shatter glass, and rock, and stone, when he tries. They are overprotective of Moira for precisely three hours, until she demonstrates that what blood Gifts do not confer upon a person, sheer bloody minded hard work can. The bruises heal quickly enough.

And, with Gifts hidden, the niece and nephew of the Eisenhardts make a valuable contribution to the mission. People try to flatter them, beguile them, to learn what they can of the traders. Sometimes they let them think they’ve succeeded, sometimes they don’t. It’s all going reasonably well, until they hit one snag. Repeatedly. Westchester permits trade in living human flesh. Slavery. People can be bought and sold here; not only criminals and debtors, but their families. It is legal, here, for a man to expose his own children for sale in the market place. That last is rare, though, and mostly due to some arcane legal rules surrounding adoptions and other family matters.

Nor can any man, once marked and sold as such, be freed, whatever error or criminal dealings by others reduced him to the market place. Property is always property here; a chattel cannot hope for elevation to personhood again. Erik had known that, but had failed to anticipate the complications this would put in their plans to present themselves as slightly morally dubious traders. Genosha, with its bitter memory of the suffering endured by the Gifted in barbarous times past, does not permit such things. _People_ are not animals, nor treated as such in Genosha, Erik thinks, savagely, the first time someone offers him an amazing deal on a luxury item, and the item in question turns out to be sentient. He keeps his temper, barely, and does not blow his cover.

Moira, with her experience in law enforcement, is less surprised. It is hard even for her to turn down the “investment” that turns out to be a little girl, or the labour saving offer that turns out to be a lanky teenager. But turn them down she does. The other parts of the team take it even more badly. This could mean trouble, Moira decides, as she turns over on the floor that night. It’s her turn; she and Erik share a room, but not a bed, unless they really must. Erik claims it is because she snores; Moira knows she does not. She determines to have a little word the next day, with Erik.

It turns out Erik is not the person she should have worried about.

Sean Cassidy had brought home a slave as trade goods. The merchant he’d gone to dealt in spices and trinkets, so Erik had felt reasonably safe in detailing Sean off to collect what he could get out of him. A reasonably easy item to transport, that’s all he’d specified, if the boy could not squeeze coin out of the man for the debt. Although any financial losses were not as devastating to the Eisenhardts as they would have been to a genuine trade family, they all had to act as if such losses were important, or risk their cover. No one would leave a debt for long, or forget it; if they were genuine traders. Coin was their life blood.

Moira had worried about poorly preserved cinnamon, or faked pepper, not this… human complication. At least the man apparently had no Gift. Gifted slaves were incredibly rare, whether because they could evade enslavement or because the Gifted themselves were rare outside of Genosha. Erik stared, cross armed, at Sean. The idiot boy would never make a true spy. His heart was too soft. Beside Sean, the slave looked on, blank faced and silent as if he were unaware of the storm kicked up by his presence.  
“You said we needed to get that repayment today! You said, you _said_ it could be in kind!” Sean said, defensively. Beside Erik, Moira sighed, again. Her headache was back.

“Yes, I did say the payment need not be in coin.” Erik said, flatly. “I didn’t say payment in, in _persons,_ ;.” The slave stared at his feet, unmoving. He had to be aware of the tense atmosphere, yet he seemed quiet and calm, as if the debate had nothing to do with him. Erik stared at him, evaluating. There was a depth in the slave’s blue eyes that spoke of a solid amount of intelligence, to Erik’s eye. The slave was shorter than Erik, but wiry, and strongly built, if uncomfortably thin and a little ragged around the edges. Clearly the merchantman’s current difficulties were being felt by his goods.

“Sean.” Moira broke into the rapidly developing argument. “Why him?” She would not have been surprised if Sean had decided to “rescue” a child or pretty slave girl, but not a man a few years older than Sean was himself. The slave was thin, but didn’t appear particularly ill treated, apart from standing in rain-wet clothes without a coat.Sean’s face wrinkled, unhappily. He started to shrug, caught Erik’s eye, and stopped.  
“He was the only one he offered; the others had claims on them. I saw the warehouse; he’s bust.”  
“Were you _mad_?” Erik burst out. The slave tensed. “You know what-“ he broke off, not wanting to risk the slave understanding too much. Erik was reasonably sure he had some grasp of the Genoshan language, even if he seemed to be unaware of what, or rather who, was being discussed.

“Look, Boss…” Sean began, earnestly. Erik rolled his eyes. Moira leaned forwards in her chair. This was going to be good. “Uncle, I know it wasn’t a good idea, but… He knew, he knew we’re traders, he expected me to be focused on profit. I couldn’t turn him down. He didn’t have anything else.” Reflexively, they all looked at the slave, who seemed uneasy under the joint observation, shifting from foot to foot for the first time.  
“He said, he said he needed a quick resolution, and we did too. And that slaves like Charles, the general ones no one has much use for, in this town they go to the brothels, or the mines, but we could sell him to a decent place elsewhere, and make a profit, or use him as a scribe for our book keeping.” 

Sean made a vague gesture "What _else_

__

Erik looked at Moira. Moira looked back. There was a long pause. He sighed.  
“Charles, is it?” The slave did not look up, but Sean nodded, hopefully. “Come here.” Erik said, in the local dialect. The slave’s head jerked up, and his eyes fixed on Erik’s. “Yes.” Erik said, gesturing. “Come here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slave meets his new owners, and there are many misunderstandings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so in this chapter I introduce a character who has been a slave since he was about 13. He's in his twenties now.  
> He is currently viewing the world in the knowledge that he has _absolutely_ no legal or acknowledged ability to withold his consent to _anything_ from freepersons, unless ordered to do so by his owner.  
>  Consequently his thoughts and reactions may be triggery to read, as they reference suicidal thoughts, anticipated rape, and previous abuse.  
> None of these thoughts are graphic, and things will get better over time, but be warned, and hit the back button if necessary.  
> If you feel I've left out a warning, or handled matters carelessly in other ways, please let me know.

Charles stood in the pleasant inn room and concentrated on warming up without shivering. The sudden spring shower had drenched his thin tunic and breeches, and now the damp cloth clung to him unpleasantly. The fire was a good one though, and even though he knew he could not risk approaching it; it kept the whole room from being chilly. There was obviously some kind of problem over the lad’s acceptance of himself in payment. Although it was foolish of anyone to expect to get coin out of Michal without bloodshed, perhaps these Eisenhardts had missed that part of his reputation. Maybe they had been hoping for a trade that was more saleable that a no longer young, semi skilled male slave of no particular looks, history or beauty. Charles was reasonably sure that the red head was hoping for the chance to… sample the goods he had accepted. There had been something in the way he looked at Charles, when Michal had demonstrated his paces, almost as if he were truly _seeing_ Charles, and not merely another source of profit or loss. It had been alarming. No one had bothered looking at Charles for years. Well bred people did not see their lessers, unless they wanted something from them. Still, this Sean was young, and although young men were usually hungrier than older, in Charles’ experience, their palates were often correspondingly less jaded. The older man was apparently married to the woman; so they might want a side dish, occasionally, but probably not more than that. He hoped, even as he knew such hoping was probably foolish. 

Charles breathed out, steadily, keeping himself calm, as they babbled, about trade, and profit and why Sean’s act had been a bad one. It was curious- even among themselves, and speaking in their native tongue, which they could have no idea how well Charles understood, with no listener other than their slave, the families’ speech was elliptical, incomplete. He heard his name spoken, and tried not to react too much. It was not a good idea to display too much fear, or too much thought, not at the beginning, until Charles knew for certain whether his new owners’ general preference for a slave’s demeanour was one of flinching and cowering or simply bland acquiescence to everything. 

“Come here.” Hearing Westchester spoken, Charles looked up. The hard faced man, lolling in his chair, waved him over. “I said, come here.” Charles swallowed, and walked over. He tried to be calm. Tensing only made some blows come faster and harder. His new master- for he is in command of this trade group, Charles can tell- has curious eyes, neither truly blue nor truly green. Charles focused on their colour to drown out the light of speculation that had begun to shine in them. As gracefully as he can manage, stiff with cold as he was, Charles dropped to his knees, and waited.

“Your name?” his new master asked, again. His accent was clearly foreign, but it’s not strong. Charles made a mental note that he can speak Westchester much better than the young master, Sean could.  
“Charles, Master.” He was careful to speak clearly, but softly. Volume is not appreciated, in slaves. At least, not in their speech.  
“What do you do?” Charles was briefly baffled. What could the man mean? Charles frowned, slightly. He knew he had taken too long when he saw his new master’s eyes darken.  
“Do, Master?” He caught the other’s quick gesture out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head, slightly, ready to deflect the expected blow.  
It didn’t come. Charles blinked. The red head, Sean, shifted noisily, from foot to foot. The woman spoke to him, gently, but quickly. Charles couldn’t quite follow it. He was too busy being transfixed by his new master’s gaze. The red haired youth clattered cheerfully out of the room a moment later.  
“Skills?” Oh, of course. He wanted to know what kind of a trade item he had in Charles. Charles drew a deep breath, pushing away both his habitual fear of being deemed worthless and his anger at being forced into the situation.  
I speak and write Westchester and Westphalian. I can figure and tally ledgers. I can care for and tutor children.” He began, as neutrally as possible, trying to strike a balance between boasting and underselling himself Neither his new master nor his new mistress’s face changed as he began the well worn list of his skills. “I have some skill with horses. I can set a board and serve at table. I can repair-“  
“Genoshan, you speak Genoshan?” That was asked in the language itself. Charles fought to keep his stance from stiffening. His knees ached.  
“Some, Master.” Charles said, carefully. He didn’t want to reveal all his resources, unless he was forced to. The man grunted out a laugh. Charles tensed again, tucking his chin down further as his master leant forwards in his chair.

Again, he wasn’t struck. Long, warm fingers curled around Charles’ chin, and tipped his face up towards his owner. Charles blinked, rapidly, and tried not to stare at the man studying him. The woman rose from her chair and moved closer to her husband. Charles swallowed, trying not to be aware of how vulnerable he was, kneeling before them.  
“Bedroom?” A chill rushed over his skin as the lady spoke, brusquely. His heart stuttered.  
“What?” Charles stammered, and then collected himself against his growing dread. “I mean, I do not understand, Mistress.”  
“She asks if you have, ah, bedroom skills.” His new master informed him, lazily, still holding his chin.

"No.” Charles said, too rapidly, and too loudly. He gulped, and tried to relax again, to little effect. 

“That is, I would strive not to, to, I wouldn’t.… I would try to please.” He ended, a little desperately. Charles _really_ did not want to be sold to a brothel, but he knew what happened to unwilling slaves, too. Abruptly, his new master withdrew from him, letting go of his face, as he strode towards the fire. He brushed against Charles as he moved past him, and warmed his hands for a long moment. The woman was silent, looking at him with troubled eyes. Charles wondered if the marriage was unhappy, and if so, what that meant for him. He bent his head and looked at the floor, pretending he did not see.  
“What’s that?” The woman was leaning forwards, gazing at the ribbon around Charles’ neck. Charles cursed himself for not remembering to hide his medallion before. At least it was still plastered in clay from the last time he’d tried to disguise it. Hopelessly, he slipped it from under his shirt and handed it over.  
“Is it for luck?” His master spoke without turning round. Charles wondered how he’d known what the woman was looking at. Charles looked at his talisman of the past, and winced. It looked crude and dirty. The clay was flaking off. Wordlessly, the woman rose and handed Charles’ token to her husband. He picked at it with his nail, curiously. Charles fought back another wince as part of the dark shining metal beneath the clay was revealed. His new master made a questioning noise as he turned the medal over in his hands. Charles reached for the old story, the safest one.  
“My sister gave it to me.” Not good, for a slave to claim relations, but better than other tales. Charles knew better than to ask for it back, or hope he would be allowed to keep it. Slaves owned nothing. The silence stretched, thin and nervous. Charles tried not to shift as he knelt in front of the empty chair and watched his last scrap of self toyed with by his new master’s long, clever fingers. He swallowed.

Charles did not understand the interest these people had in irrelevant details. Anything personal about Charles, other than what he could do, or endure, was irrelevant. Clearly these traders, being Genoshan- a legendary island paradise where slavery was forbidden, even if it was ruled by monsters- had little previous experience of slave ownership. Abruptly, his new master, presumably tired of looking at his new slaves’ crude bauble, flipped the medal back to Charles. Startled, he stretched to catch it, only to find it skimmed past his fingers to strike the floor boards. Pieces of clay shattered off it, to reveal the design beneath. Under the clay had lain a beaten circle of dark metal, engraved with birds soaring over a rock. Both his owners stared at it transfixed. Charles scrabbled for it among the shards. He hoped to be able to hold it once more, just once. He squared his shoulders, ready to take whatever punishment resulted.

The door opened, surprising them all, and the odd little moment was shattered. Sean swung in, with an exotic dark haired beauty in tow. “Bath house is nearly ready.” he said, brightly. “Angel. Any joy at the dyers?” the woman said. Charles noted the name, carefully, as the girl nodded cheerfully, holding up three small packages. She glanced at the room and then frowned.

"Who’re you? Why are you kneeling?” she said, nodding towards Charles. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Nervously, he glanced from owner to owner, uncertain of what to say, and to whom.  
“Angel.” The man said, crisply, swinging round from the fire again. “Meet our new slave. His name is Charles.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting, a bath, a warning, and a meal.

The girl’s name is Angel. She’s apparently Sean’s cousin, and they are both related in some undisclosed fashion to the older couple, who call themselves Magda and Magnus Eisenhardt Charles fixes these names in his memory, along with the knowledge that the children call them Mr E and Mrs M, rather than any family names or titles. Angel glares at Sean as if the boy had wronged her; Charles is not sure why. The dyes she got in return for trade metal are worth far more in ultimate profit that Charles himself is. Partly because they won’t have to be fed or kept clothed and clean, like he will.

Sean seemed pretty bewildered by it all, too. Magda had turned to the girl, and they’d begun discussing the storage of and transport of the dye blocks, immediately. Magnus had sunk back into his chair, contemplating the fire, or the floor. Charles was almost grateful when Mr E- Master Lensherr- ordered them both to the bathhouse. Charles supposes that Sean looks cheerful because he’s got a chance to try out his new investment before anyone else does. He tries to feel nothing but resignation. It’s not much harder than usual. Still, the chance for a good wash is nothing to be sniffed at, by a slave, as long as paying for it didn’t leave him bleeding and Sean seems gentle enough. At least, when he was collecting on Michal’s debt, he’d looked at Charles, but the examination hadn’t slid into uncomfortable or painful territory at all. He’d merely followed with his eyes, as Michal pointed out Charles’ good teeth and muscles and other finer points. He’d actually looked Charles in the eye, more than once. 

The bathhouse in this inn is somewhat more luxurious than any Charles has been in as a customer. The washroom is lined with slates, which slope to the drain, for ease of cleaning, he supposes. He fetches Sean’s hot water, in buckets, and then his own. Sean has his own soap and, even, a sponge. _Spoilt little trader_ , Charles thinks, without resentment. Sean strips off with his back to Charles and commences washing, vigorously. Charles offers his assistance, with water pouring, and is rebuffed, firmly. Charles turns away and begins to shed his own wet clothes, quietly. He tucks his token into the wet bundle, quickly. Sean doesn’t notice. He is staring at the wall, almost fixedly.

Internally, Charles raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t thought Sean was shy. Charles has no soap- or anything else- of his own, of course, but there is some floor soap and a rag left over by whoever cleans the bathhouse. The soap stings in his scrapes and cuts, but it’s good, scrubbing Michal’s last touches off. Charles soaps his stubbly hair twice, before he pours the last of the clean water in his bucket over himself, hastily. He turns to catch Sean staring at him, curiously.  
“How may I serve, master?” Sean flushes.  
“Oh. That was quick, no, it’s… I got this. Didn’t know you had any soap...”

"It was in the corner.” Charles says, quickly. “I didn’t take it from anywhere else, it’s used for the floors, I thought-“  
 _“Floor soap_?” Sean says, incredulous, and Charles’ heart skips a beat. Was he not supposed to have used soap? What did Sean expect him to use?  
“I- Yes. I’m sorry, Master.” Carefully, Charles hangs his head, trying to look contrite and fearful. Sometimes it’s enough. Sean blanches, and inwardly Charles feels pleased. He knew the lad was soft hearted, or at least wanted to think of himself as such.  
“I was gonna lend you mine.” Sean says, finally. Charles… isn’t quite sure what to make of that. It doesn’t sound like a lie, or a complaint. What does Sean _want?_  
“Sorry, Master.” He says, eventually, just to be on the safe side. He considers dropping to his knees, but decides it might be too much.  
“Anyway.” Sean says, brightly, after a small pause. “The big tub’s usually good and hot around this time of day, come on.” Charles shuffles his feet. He’s getting chilled pretty fast again, but he’s used to that. He decides to risk a question.  
Does this inn permit slaves to bathe with the free, Master?” he says, carefully. 

Sean is Genoshan, not from Westchester, after all. Charles doesn’t want to be whipped for contaminating freepersons’ washing facilities any more than he wants to be beaten for trying to avoid servicing his master. Tricky. Sean frowns, puzzled.  
“It’s ok. There’s only us at the moment- the others’ll come along later.” Outwardly docile, Charles follows him in to the inner, heated room where the vast coppery bathing tub squats over the remnants of a low fire. Inwardly he’s bracing himself. Bath houses often make owners frolicsome. Sean climbs the ladder gracefully and slides into the water with scarcely a splash. Charles grits his teeth and stumbles up to join him.

The water is hot enough to make him gasp. Sean is half lying, half sitting on the bench within the tub. Cautiously, Charles slides under the water and sits, not too close. Sean’s eyes are closed, which makes him feel a little safer, and his face is as brightly red as his hair. The heat from the water soaks into Charles’ bones, easing aches and pains he had almost forgotten to feel. The last of the chill from the streets fades, and he lets out an almost inaudible sigh. He regrets it when Sean’s eyes snap open, but he doesn’t make any gestures or give Charles any orders, so Charles feels he’s safe enough in sitting still for a while. 

********************************************

“So.” Angel crossed her arms. “Why did Sean bring back a slave? And what are we going to do about it?” Moira frowned. Erik sighed. Always these youngsters with their complications.  
“His name is Charles.” Moira said, calmly. “And we’re going to take him with us. He's a payment. We’re traders-”  
“You’re going to _sell_ him?” Angel demanded, angrily. She caught Erik’s glare and flushed. “Sorry, Uncle.” She muttered. The awkward silence lengthened. Moira rose from her seat and began sorting through one of Sean’s packs, quietly.

“No. Not in this town. But I’m not going to say so to him. ” Erik said, finally. “He’s too skinny and scared.”  
“You have to admit,” Moira said, calmly, as she held a shirt up against the light, “He’s good cover.” She frowned at the shirt, and put it back into the pack, selecting another.  
“And maybe if we have one, the others will stop offering us _more._ ” Erik muttered. He moved to stare into the fire, avoiding the other gazes in the room.

They’ve been offering?” Angel asked, advancing further into the room. Erik and Moira answered in accidental unison.  
“Yes.” Startled, they glanced at each other, and smiled.  
“Bastards.” Angel observed, calmly, of the slave traders. She squatted in front of the fire. “What are we going to do about it?"  
“For now? We’re humble traders, there’s very little we can do about it.” Moira said, dryly, as she began to examine a pair of trousers.  
“Later, though.” Erik said, darkly. “We’ll think of something.” Angel grinned.  
She poked the fire, thoughtfully. “So we’re just gonna bring him along? Like a pet?”  
“I’m sure he’s going to come in useful.” Moira said, diplomatically.  
“He will if he knows what’s good for him.” Erik said. Angel’s eyes widened. Erik glanced down at her and shrugged. “He’s probably been a slave all his life. He’s not stupid, that one. I saw it in his eyes.”  
“He _does_ have pretty eyes.” Angel said. Erik’s own eyes darkened, dangerously.  
“There won’t be any of that, not on this trip.” Moira looked up, her face hard.  
“Ah, sure. Keeping him for yourself?” Angel tried to joke, and regretted it, as Erik’s glare turned truly dangerous.

“No one, not one of us, is to try and so much as touch him. Not while we’re in Westchester. You understand?” He was almost snarling by the last sentence. Angel raised both her hands, placatingly. Erik in a mood was not fun to be around.  
“Sure! I mean, I was only joking!” she said, a little desperately.  
Erik’s face didn’t soften. Moira’s didn’t either. Angel swallowed. Her wings ached to flutter.  
“We talked, before you came. I’m not sure he knows how to say no. I don’t think he’s able to.” Moira explained Erik’s mood, a little more gently. Angel went pale.  
“I don’t think you want to be a rapist, Angel, even by accident.” Erik said, dry as desert dust. 

“No.” Angel flinched. “Gods, no. Sorry. Thanks.” She swallowed. “Really.”  
“Good.” Erik said, viciously. There was a pause. Moira laid a plain tunic on top of the shirt and pants she had selected. “Also, we don’t want to make any kind of enemy of him. Not when we’re vulnerable like this.”  
“Uh… did you tell Sean this? I mean, he’s kind, and all, but he’s not always the sharpest quill in the box.” Angel asked, nervously.  
“Should I have to?” Erik said, curiously.  
“You told _me._ ” Angel pointed out, reasonably enough. “They’ve only been in the bathhouse half the turn of a glass.” Moira said, calmly. “Long enough, for Sean to put his foot in it.” Angel mumbled. Erik stared at her. “I’ll… I’ll go see about supper.” She said, and fled.  
“I’ll be taking Charles dry clothes in a minute, I’ll tell him then.” Moira said briskly to Erik.  
"Good." Curtly, he nodded.

Someone is approaching the bath house. They don’t stop in the wash room, but come straight into the area with the hot tub. Charles finds himself tensing up, in preparation. Sean glances curiously at him  
“You’re kind of jumpy, aren’t you?” Charles doesn’t know what to say to that. He drops his eyes to the surface of the water, and mumbles an apology. “Hey, no, it’s ok, I just-“ His voices changes then, and he says, with relief. “Oh. Hi, Mrs M.” Charles glances up, to see Magda, the older woman of the group, approaching. He’s suddenly not sure what to do. He’s nude, in a bath. Should he kneel, or bow? If he does that on the tub, his head is going to go under the water. If he gets out… he’ll be more nude, somehow.

“I brought you some spare clothes, Charles.” She says, calmly, cutting through his worries. “Your things are still wet, and...” She makes a face. Hastily, Charles scrambles out of the tub. He reaches for some sheeting, trying to dry and drape himself, decently, when the world goes dark and the room starts spinning. Charles reels, dizzy. He almost falls to his knees, tangles in the sheeting and sudden vertigo, but a hand catches him. Magda is stronger than she looks.

Apologies, Mistress.” Charles mumbles, still dazed, and is startled when no one hits him for being slow or clumsy.  
“You need food.” She says, quietly. “Put these on, and come and eat.” He gaze shifts to behind him. “You too, Sean.” Charles clasps the bundle of clothes and shuffles off to get dressed. Behind him, he can hear the lady berating Sean about something. He can’t hear words, only the tone. She’s sounding very threatening.

His attention is claimed by the clothes, then. A good, thick pair of trousers, only a little long in the ankle and loose around the hips. A shirt that isn’t new, but is clean and far finer than anything Charles has worn since he was thirteen. Even underdrawers. What kind of people are they, to think a slave’s needs might include underwear? He puts it all on, there in the warm steamy bathhouse, and it feels splendid, clean new clothes against a clean skin.  
“There’s a tunic and belt here, too.” Mistress Magda says to Charles, as he’s admiring his new shirt sleeve. He starts, and looks up.

Sean is also out of the tub, but he’s only wearing trousers, and carrying his shirt and tunic. His skin is like Charles’ own, pale and flushed in the heat. Magda doesn’t stare at either of them. Charles realizes he’s looking his owner in the face, and drops his gaze, quickly. Magda sighs. Charles doesn’t know why. He braces himself, automatically.  
“Come on.” She says, quite gently, and turns to go, without striking him. Confused, Charles follows her, pulling on the tunic as they leave the warmth of the bathhouse, and struggling with his belt as they enter the inn proper.

He watches his feet carefully as they pass through the common room- he has no shoes, and bare feet are easily damaged. He doesn’t want to stand on a nail or worse. A slave without working feet doesn't have a future. Sean walks behind him, which should worry Charles, but he finds it’s easier than having to turn his back on the whole of the common room of a public inn. The walk up to the private room in concluded in silence. Charles wonders what on earth Magda was scolding Sean for. It can’t be for wasting time with a slave- they weren’t even in there long enough for Sean to grow impatient and order him into service. Nor can it be for letting the slave in the public baths; they told him to take Charles there himself.

His thoughts are shut down by the good smells from the food on the table. Automatically, Charles begins to arrange things correctly. He helps the inn’s servant, who ignores him, to set out plates and bowls. Charles checks everything is clean and orderly, as the owners talks, quietly. The servant leaves, mumbling about ale. Charles takes up position, standing discreetly against the wall, and waits. Sean notices first of all. He yelps, gleefully, and scrambles to sit down. The girl joins him. Charles doesn’t blame them. The thick stew smells good, and the bread is fresh. There’s also wheel of cheese. Charles thinks that there’s so much there that he’s got a good chance of a full belly himself when his owners are satisfied.

The older man, Magnus, swings away from the fire and sits. He starts lading out stew as Angel cuts the bread. The smells make Charles’ mouth water, and he swallows.  
“Charles?” Magda asks, quietly. Charles tenses.  
“Mistress?” He asks, politely, hoping he hasn’t done anything wrong. The inn’s serving maid returns just then, and mercifully, the ale distracts Magda from Charles for a moment. He resumes his stance and waits. He hopes they eat quickly, and aren't given to lingering over the ale.  
"Here.” Startled, Charles refocuses to see Magnus standing directly in front of him. He’s holding a bowl of stew. A good thick slice of bread is precariously balanced on the side. Charles reaches out, hastily. He doesn’t want to lose the bread, if the food’s for him, and he doesn’t want to get a beating for dropping it, if it’s not.  
“Thank you, master.” He says as soon as he clasps the bowl. “May I eat this?” Magnus starts to roll his eyes, and then stops. Charles doesn’t understand him.  
“Yes” He says, patiently. “Here’s your spoon.” The spoon is even a metal one, not wooden. Charles thanks his master again, but the man has already turned back to the table. Charles slides down the wall to squat, more comfortably, and balances the bread on his knee. The first spoonful of stew is the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. When he empties the bowl, Angel ladles him another helping without even glancing at Magnus or his wife.That night, there’s a truckle bed trundled out from under the bed for him. There’s a nightshirt, and even a pillow. Charles sees these signs, and braces himself for a visitor, but nothing and one disturbs him, except for Angel’s attempts to get Sean to stop snoring.

Clean, and fed, and warm, Charles sleeps dreamlessly that night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad beer, a proposition, and a Decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual harrasment of someone not in a position to give consent, in this chapter. Also, attempted procuration, likewise NC.

“So.” Erik cleared his throat, and sipped the last of the bad beer the inn supplied. “We’ve filled our contracts and deals in this town, yes?” Moira looked to Charles. The slave raised his head from the ledger, squinting, and nodded.  
“Yes, M-Sir.” He stuttered, slightly. The new titles the traders insisted on did not flow naturally to his tongue. “I-if Master Sean comes back with the payment from Grimaldi’s as arranged.”

Erik nodded, pleased. He still hadn’t got to the bottom of Raven’s token turning up hanging around Charles’ neck. The slave clearly regarded it as some kind of lucky object, and he had said his sister had given it to him, but that was all Erik or Moira had been able to find out. Charles rarely spoke, and never about himself. His conversation was mostly limited to “Yes sir” - now Erik had put his foot down over the whole master business- and “No sir.”

Still, however Charles had come to own the thing remained a mystery, and however the Eisenhardts had come to own Charles, seemed likely to remain so. Mentally, Erik shrugged. He wasn’t going to bring it up while they were all still in Westchester.  
“Master Sean?” Angel said, pointedly. Charles flushed and mumbled something incomprehensible. Erik exchanged a glance with Moira. Something had disturbed Charles; their slave did not usually display confusion or nerves in public. He was usually as bland and calm as a butler, or a cat. 

Erik wondered, sometimes, if the slave actually had all that many feelings to hide. Erik shrugged again. A true trader wouldn’t care about the emotional state of his slave, as long as he was able to do his work. And Charles could certainly work. Their meals were prompt; their clothes laundered rapidly, and both Erik and Moira had seen a decrease in expenditure and bills, as Charles kept a sharp eye on the petty cash and the items charged to the team. Erik had also overheard him giving Sean a language and etiquette lesson that had made the boy a far more effective trader than before. Yes, Charles certainly qualified as a good investment.

Having Charles there to manage the day to day stuff had freed the team up to pursue their other researches, too. Whilst not being as wide spread or formalised as Lord Shaw’s network of spies, they had, between them, identified many useful potential sources of “trade secrets” or “events affecting trade” information who could probably be persuaded to talk to the Eisenhardts again.

Beside Erik, Moira made an irritated noise as her cup ran dry. Charles jerked to his feet, apologetically, and headed for the bar. Amused, Erik watched him go. Charles zig zagged his way through boisterous, early evening crowd neatly, and smiled at the barmaid. She ignored his attempts to be friendly, and stated slapping mugs onto a tray, mechanically.

“Hey… Hey. You the Eisenhardt traders?” Erik jerked his head round as the talker’s beery breath wafted over the table. The sight that met his eyes was not reassuring. The stranger was grubby, his shabby clothing covered in beer and food stains.  
“We are.” Moira said, graciously. “My husband is the head of the party, how can we-“  
“That’s your slave, right?” The man cut her off, speaking directly to Erik. "That one at the bar."

“We took him in trade payment, yes.” Erik said, shortly. He still felt uncomfortable at the idea of owning, however temporarily, a fellow human, even a non Genoshan.  
“You renting?” Angel’s lips thinned, and she began to glare.  
“What?” Said Erik impatiently. What was the other man getting at?

“Your slave. Can I hire him, for a few candles? I’ll pay.” He glanced at Moira and Angel’s disapproving faces and said “It’s all right ladies, I won’t break him. I’m always gentle, if they’re good.” Moira sucked her breath in, with distaste  
“No.” Erik snapped, as he realised what the other man was getting at. What had he taken Erik for? He wasn’t some kind of _pimp_ for Charles. The other man’s face fell.  
“Don’t be selfish- I’ll make it worth your while. It’s good to share. Keeps them humble, you know what I mean?” He winked. Angel gave a muffled curse, and stood up, abruptly.  
“Charles needs help.” She left, pushing past the drunk forcefully.

“Keeps who humble?” Sean asked from behind him. The man whirled, drunkenly. Sean gave him a quizzical glance as he slipped past to sit at the table.  
“Uncle, good news-“ He said, brightly, before being cut off.  
“Later.” Erik said curtly. He wanted to curse. Charles was heading back to the table with a tray of drinks, and he wanted this conversation over with before he was in ear shot. He fixed the drunken pervert with a glare and said. “Get out. _Now._ ” The naked threat on his face seemed to warn the other man, and he nodded, and shuffled away

“What was that about?” Sean asked as Angel led Charles back to the table.  
“Grabby hands.” Angel said shortly. “Had to growl at a few, you know how it is.” Moira nodded, in sympathy.  
“I’m sorry, M- Angel.” Charles stammered. “I don’t-“ She smiled, lifting a beer off his tray.  
“S’okay, love.” Charles’ face blanked. Angel looked puzzled.  
“What did that ugly dude want?” Sean persisted. Erik wanted to hit him.

“Me, I think, sir.” Charles said, softly. His eyes were fixed on the floor. “I’ve… Before…” He trailed off, and then started again. “He’s one of Michal’s, ah business acquaintances.”  
“And the grabby guy, by the bar, did he know Michal?” Angel snapped. Charles twitched, minutely. Erik recognised the move. Charles was trying not to flinch, for some reason.  
“No. He just knows I’m a slave.” Charles’ voice was utterly flat and neutral. Erik pulled him down to sit at the table as he tapped at the thin metal plaque that dangled from his neck; not his token, but the symbol of Charles’ status as a slave. Irrationally, Erik hated it. The cheap pot metal tag ground against his metal sense like a grain of sand in an eyeball.

“Wow.” Sean said, frankly. “And he just assumed that that meant you’d want _him_?” Sean sounded incredulous, as well he might. Cleaned up, fed, and dressed properly, even with that damn slave tag, Charles looked quite good, Erik had to admit. Charles lips twisted, slightly, as the innocence of Sean’s comments struck him.  
“It’s rather more that this-” -he flicked the tag- “Means they don’t have to care about what _I_ want.” Sean looked sick. A tiny gasp escaped his throat. Charles looked up, suddenly realising how what he had said might be reacted to. He paled, and stared at the table, his shoulders hunched.

Moira stared, meaningfully, at Erik, who shifted in his seat, uncomfortably.  
“They'll have to care about what _I_ want.” He said, finally. “And I say, the work you’re doing is far too important to be bothered with dregs like that. You keep being pestered, here or in the next place, refer them to me.” He hid his face in his beer for the next minute.  
“Or any of us, if Max isn’t around.” Moira added softly. “Do you understand, Charles?” 

Charles heaved out a shuddering sigh of relief.  
“Yes. Yes, I understand, ma’am.” His shoulders relaxed, and he let his eyes slip closed. Erik thought the reaction was a little extreme, but then again, he hadn’t been a slave, so perhaps, for Charles, it wasn’t. Angel flashed Erik a quick thumbs up, and a grin, blanking her expression when Charles looked up and cleared his throat again.  
“I.. Ah, if I can ask sir… The next town?” He looked hopeful, oddly enough.  
“Yes, we’re moving on tomorrow; I thought you’d begun packing.”  
“I have, sir.” Charles said, quietly. “I didn’t know if you’d be taking be along or selling me here.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles ruminates, on his bad habits, and his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware, Charles considers suicide to be a valid escape plan, if his life as a slave gets too bad and thinks about it from time to time in this chapter, and possibly later on.

Erik choked on his beer. Sean helpfully slapped him on the back.  
“Why on earth would we do something as… _stupid_ as that?” he demanded, indignantly, once he had recovered his breath. Charles made no verbal reply, but a corner of his mouth turned up, slightly. He sat up a little straighter, too. Angel pushed the ledgers away from him and slapped a plate of bread and cheese in front of Charles, firmly. He blinked.

 

“You’re efficient and handy, you never grumble, and you can read ledgers.” Erik said to his beer. He managed to bite off any comments about Charles being easy on the eyes; he was, but given the events of the evening, Charles probably wouldn’t react well to any comments about his physical charms. Moira smiled into her hands. Charles realised he had misunderstood his owners again. They were more possessive than he had thought possible for slave owners- who else would have bothered to prevent a slave being groped or used, or thought twice about renting them out for a while? And yet, possessive was not the right word. Not really.

They were bringing him along on their trade journey, rather than selling him and acquiring another slave in the next town, because… because they liked him? Because they preferred the familiar, at any rate. Charles took another bite of his bread and cheese, and reminded himself of the dangers of reading too much into things. It’s a dangerous situation to be in. Charles finds himself, for almost the first time in the long years he has been enslaved, growing… attached to his owners. Charles doesn’t understand himself. He has almost always been sensible, protecting himself from more loss, from heartbreak, by keeping his feelings and his thoughts his own. The numb, emotionless mask of the slave is his great- his only- armour in the struggle of existence.

Kind owners, indifferent owners, cruel owners… Sooner or later, they all pass him along. Charles has no great skills, in art, or healing, or craft that would make him worth keeping.  
No great beauty, either. Not since he was grown. As a youth, of course, Charles had been found fresh and appealing, but not for a long time now, thankfully enough. Now it’s just a question of dodging greedy hands in inns or dark corners, and he even has the protection of his owners against that. 

Several times, Angel, or Sean, or Erik, or Moira, has slapped sweaty groping hands, or ordered away leering faces. They’ve even turned down offers of compensation, for his time. Sean thought of him as a person, not a slave from the first. And his later disgust at the idea of Charles being forced into bedroom work, as it’s called, was not only genuine, but also shared by the other Genoshans. It’s almost as if they think Charles has some kind of a, a _right_ to his own body.

It’s clear they don’t know how to work with slaves. Some slaves would have taken huge advantage of that already. Charles is reasonably proud of himself for not. He sits at the table with them, when they remember to make him. He eats the same food as they do, with them, when they insist. He wears the quality clothes they’ve provided, right down to underwear and shoes. 

Charles plays a game, from time to time. He evaluates his current life, the good and the bad. He considers his opportunities for death or escape (which would lead to his death eventually, he knows.) And if ever he decides that finding death would be easier than trying to survive, he has vowed, he’ll do it. One of his fellow slaves told him he was morbid, once. This was not news. Charles simply thinks it makes sense. Pain is (the philosophers say) and inescapable part of life. Therefore, if the finite pain of getting away from it (by dying) is less than the continuous pain of living, well. Death it is. Charles learnt long ago that the only thing he can genuinely hope for in this life is the avoidance of some pain.

But lately, well… He’s found the game less and less rewarding. Instead, he finds his mind wandering; to thoughts of the future beyond the next day or so. To the few memories of his past that are not completely painful. Even as they move from town to village to town, on an irregular path of trade and transaction, however, Charles never forgets that he is the slave and they are the owners. Even as he grows to like them, even to trust them, just a little, Charles is not so far gone as to forget that. It’s _madness_ for any slave to start to like the person or persons who hold his life in their hands, and will doubtless sell him as soon as they can reliably profit from it. Let alone a slave simply picked up by foreign traders in lieu of a debt. Madness and perhaps a strange desire to nurture his own future hurt. But, he finds, he just can’t _stop_.

Charles thinks it started when he realised the reason Sean looked at him like a person, when Michal put him through his paces, was because Sean, being Genoshan, knew no better. Perhaps it started earlier, when They first acquired him, and their immediate reactions were to wash Charles, clothe him and feed him and put him to bed, all completely unmolested. At the time, he hadn’t understood, fearing they thought him diseased, or were saving his services for another, or for market. But no, it hadn’t been that.

It hadn’t been that at all.

He smothers a sigh, and gets up. If they are all moving on soon, he has more than packing to do. The pack horses need to be checked for any problems, and the Genoshans’ riding horses need to be fed more oats. Absently, Charles rolls the ledgers in their bag and ties the strings firmly. He hands them to Magnus, who takes them with a smile.

“I- Permission to check on the horses, sir?” he remembers to blurt at last. Magnus nods, and Charles sets off to the stables. This time, he’s able to dodge the wandering hands, and ignore the whispered offer from one of the drinkers without any anxiety at all. He’s always managed to evade the people in this inn, but it’s comforting to know that he’s under orders to do so, now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel thinks, travelling sucks, and Erik is not a happy camper.

Angel has decided she’d like to stop being a spy now, thank you. It’s ironic- she knew this would come, but she never dreamed it would be the weather that brought it on, rather than discovery by Genosha’s sworn enemies, or moral dilemmas or similar events of a dramatic nature. She’s learned a lot in these months of trade and travel and tugging at strings to see where they lead. Some of it useful- how to tell good spices from bad, the nine and fifty ways a trader can indicate they are lying about a deal- Some of it less so. The price of meat in seven different towns, for example.

But Angel hasn’t learnt how to endure petty irritations like this rainstorm. It’s been a bad start to a day that has only got worse. Starting with a too-early awakening from a cold and uncomfortable night of camping, with Sean snoring on one side of her and Charles’ twitching and half-stifled noises on the other. Angel’s sick of hearing the poor man’s night terrors; which makes her sound like some heartless creature like Lady Frost, but there’s only so long you can lie there and listen to him before the nightmares creep into your sleep too. At night, Charles sometimes flinches and cries and won’t wake up at all, whatever Angel or Sean have done to try and help him. It’s not like they’ve not tried to help during the day; but he just looks at them with blank eyes and a bland, mask like face, saying nothing reacting to nothing, and then he tries to sleep huddled up by himself, and nearly freezes to death. Moira has advised they leave things until Genosha, although Angel is not sure why.

Erik had ignored everyone’s weariness, including his own, to drive them all up and onto the road almost before dawn. Just in time to catch the rain’s full fury. The rain trickles down her face, and she pulls her hood forwards. She catches a glimpse of Charles out of the corner of her eye as she does so, and frowns to herself. He doesn’t look good. Charles is pale and shivering slightly- the waxed cloth coat he’s wearing is clearly failing to keep him dry. His eyes have large, dark bags under them, and he’s been edging slowly back to the gaunt, underfed state he was in when Sean found him. Charles also looks like he has a headache worse that Angels, or Erik’s. But it’s his lack of expression that gives him away. Angel had been embarrassed at how long it took her to realise that the less expression Charles showed, the more uncomfortable or worried he actually was. Angel is used to people showing all their emotions, all the time. It’s part of growing up in a large Genoshan family. You don’t get heard unless you yell, not in Angel’s home.

Angel’s parents died when Angel was barely more than a baby, but she has hundreds of cousins and aunts and relatives, most of whom are either comfortable with her Gifts or Gifted themselves. (Of course, there’s her cousin Elsa, who hates her, but that’s because Elsa is a cow pure and simple, (and also because Angel accidentally destroyed her favourite party dress when trying to take her flying, back when they were both small.)   
“Hey, Charles.” Angel reined her horse in until she was level with Charles’s packhorse. He rode the lead one, and guided the others along, safely. Charles smiled, politely at her  
“What do you need, M… Angel?” he said, quietly. He rubbed his forehead, wearily.  
“Was just wondering how you were. This weather’s just shitty.”  
“I’m fine ma’am. Are you well?” Charles looked at her briefly, and then his eyes went back to focus on Erik and Moira, riding ahead.

“Yeah. Hope it blows over, soon.” Erik is slumped in his saddle, hunched against the wind blowing rain into his eyes. Behind them, they can hear Sean’s voice raised in cheerful and tuneless song. Angel feels anger and fear for a heartbeat, before she listens, and realises that Sean is just singing, not employing his deadly Gift. She snorts, in disgust, and catches a pained look from Charles. For a moment, they lock eyes, and Angel grins, knowing that, even if he won’t ever say so, Charles feels the same as she does about Sean’s singing.  
“It’s only an hour or two more.” Moira calls out, brightly. Erik coughs, sourly. Angel looks over at Charles and sighs. He looks a question at her.  
“Just… two more hours in this.” She waves her arms around, dramatically. He smiles.  
“Ah, but consider, ma’am!” He says, bowing low over his horse’s head. “The fresh air will do your beautiful complexion much good.” She rolls her eyes at him, and he laughs, faintly.

It’s more of a slight chuckle than anything else, but it lightens Charles’ face and sparkles in his eyes. Angel finds herself smiling as her mood lifts to match his.  
“Yeah, let’ face it, I need all the help I can get.” She mock sighs, laying her hand against her forehead in pretend grief. Charles looks convincingly horrified, as he swears she is more beautiful than the day- well, than _this_ day, anyway.  
“What gives?” Sean says, as he convinces his horse to move fast enough to catch up with them from his position at the rear of the train.  
“Oh your cousin and I are merely swapping beauty tips, sir” Charles says, dryly- so dryly that Sean eyes them both uncertainly, clearly not sure how serious he’s actually being.  
Angel laughs, and both young men gaze at her- Charles in anxiety and Sean in bewilderment.

“Less chatter, more speed!” Erik snaps from ahead of them, grumpily, and coughs again. Both Angel and Sean watch in astonishment as Charles’ open good humour rapidly retreats, leaving him silent, pale, and tense again. Charles looks ahead stiffly, like a doll, and ignores the rain and wind to urge the line of pack horses roped to his own to greater speed. Angel glares at Erik’s back.  
"Just because _he’s_ feeling off-colour, there’s no need to take it out on _us_ ,” she mutters. Charles’ blank look fades into one of carefully hidden curiosity.  
“Is Master Magnus not feeling well?” He's anxious.Angel nods.  
“He said his head hurt, earlier.” Charles muses. “We can get some powder or a tisane at the next inn, perhaps. It's fever season, there should be some medicine about the place.”

“You are too nice to us, you know that?” Sean says, carelessly. His bright pale eyes are fixed on the skyline. Charles gives him a long look. “What?” He adds, plaintively.  
“I… “ Charles starts in reply, and then trails off. Nervously, he tugs at the collar of his coat and fiddles with his reins. Sean opens his mouth, but Angel fixes him with a glare, and he says nothing, only whistling, tunelessly. The wind picks up, gusting rain into their faces, and no one says anything more for a while.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is secretive, Erik is one sick puppy. Not like _that._

Erik coughed, harshly. His head was on fire. So was the rest of him, and he was as dry as dust besides. His joints ached as if he had been racked, and the very air had grown heavy, holding him down in its gluey grasp. Erik opened his eyes, wincing as they were assaulted with the stabbing light of a candle. It was night, and he was lying in a bed, in a clammy nightshirt. Erik came to the conclusion that he was probably ill. He opened his mouth and croaked, pitifully. There was a rustle, and he turned his head, wincing at the discomfort, to see Charles move from the chair by his bed, to the pot sitting by the fire.

“Uh…” Erik tried to ask a question, but found his words had left him. Charles glanced at him, as he ladled something from the pot, the firelight gilding the pale skin of his face and hands, making him resemble a religious statue. Erik stared, transfixed. Charles’ eyes glinted in the half light like jewels. Erik thought he was definitely ill. He had been carefully ignoring how Charles looked in any light (beyond tired, hungry, etc) since the incident three towns back, when some sweaty and perverted fool had tried to buy access to Charles’ body from him. 

He tried to shake the persistent thoughts out of his head, and winced.  
“Here. Try a sip of this, sir.” Charles spoke softly. Erik held out a hand and was amazed to see it shaking and trembling, as if he’d been struck with palsy. Charles ignored the outstretched limb, and pressed the cup to Erik’s mouth, gently. Erik swallowed. He tasted herbs and honey. In water, damn the luck, not wine.  
The herby flavour soothed his muttering stomach and moistened his drier-than-the-dust-in hell throat and mouth.

“What..?” Erik tried to speak again, and met with partial success, this time.  
“You and Master Sean both have the shaking fever.” Charles said, quietly. Erik frowned. Charles tipped the cup again, and Erik obediently drank more.   
“And M-“ Just in time he remembered, Moira was not using her name, any more than he was, although he wasn’t quite sure why it mattered here. “And my wife?” He continued, stumblingly. Charles’ eyes narrowed in sharp concern. Erik felt a little puzzled.

“The mistress and Ma’am Angel are well, sir.” Erik sighed in relief. “Please try to drink some more, sir.” Erik opened his mouth again to accept more of the drink- medicine? Water as Charles tilted the cup.  
“Neither of the ladies have had the shaking fever before, so I’m nursing you both, while they manage the business deals.” Charles explained. Erik nodded.  
“Ah.” He drew breath, painfully, and then said “How… How is Sean?” Charles smiled a little, and raised his head to glance at the bed on the other side of the fire.

“He’s sleeping. His fever broke, and the shaking will stop, soon.” Charles set the cup down, and reached out to a bowl set by Erik’s head. He lifted a cloth from it, and wrung it out, before he began wiping Erik’s face and hands. The cloth was cool, damp, and smelt faintly of lavender. It felt heavenly, Erik thought. His fever muddled thoughts got away from him at that point, and Erik found himself watching the concerned light in Charles’s eyes, and wanting to smooth out the frown between his eyebrows, before he could stop himself.

“Have you… Shaking fever, Charles?” He said, quickly. Charles interpreted the jumbled words surprisingly easily.  
“It’s quite common in Westchester. I’ve had it, sir.” He smiled, reassuringly. “It’s called the shaking fever, because, well, it makes you shake.” Erik grunted. Charles re dipped the cloth, and moved onto Erik’s arms. Erik bit back a moan that seemed somewhat inappropriate. He wished he wasn’t wearing his shirt; the cloth could soothe more of his skin that way. The cool swipe dipped under Erik’s collar and across his chest, derailing his train of thought, briefly. He blinked, and then said;

“Was it… is it bad?” Charles shook his head, calmly. For once he seemed willing to talk about parts of his past life. Erik listened, fascinated.  
“I was only a child- it was long before I was a slave. I was quite sick, my n- they told me. I nearly died. I was sick for oh, a month at least.” He smiled, thinly, and continued. “You won’t be sick so long, sir. It’s severe on the young, or the very old, but not for the healthy and strong. And I’m fine now, sir.” He patted Erik’s hand, reassuringly. Erik shut his eyes, briefly, in relief. The team could not afford a delay, not now.

When he opened them again, it was daylight, and Erik felt disgusting. He was bathed in sweat, and both Sean and Charles were nowhere to be found. He closed his eyes again, and reached out, trying to sense the location of Charles’ slave tag and his “lucky token”. Erik’s eyes opened wide as he realised they were not within range of his metal sense. He began struggling to sit up. The door opened, at Charles hurried in. Erik blinked. Even so close to him, he could barely detect the metal Charles was carrying. He frowned. This was not good. Charles caught the frown, and winced. He started speaking rapidly, apologetically.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry, I thought you were still asleep.”  
“Don’t-“ Erik began, and coughed, before he could complete the sentence. Charles had nothing to apologise for, why was he so worried? Erik frowned again. Charles winced. This time, Erik realised what was wrong. His expression was frightening his- was frightening Charles. He shook his head, and regretted it immediately.   
“Not angry.” He managed to get out. Spots bloomed in front of his eyes, and his head swam. Erik swayed, and was glad to feel strong hands catch him before his head fell off his shoulders and rolled under the bed.

“Please lie down sir.” Charles said, more calmly. “The fever’s gone but you are still quite ill.” He smoothed Erik’s pillow, neatly, and straightened the covers on the bed.  
“Don’t I know it” Erik grumbled. Charles smiled, slightly.  
“You had quite a strong bout- have you never had it before, sir? First time’s always the worst.” He looked at Erik’s face, anxiously.  
“No, it’s not common in Genosha.” Charles moved to the fireplace, and poked at the fire, carefully.

“You said you’d had it yourself, last night? Erik let the sentence trail away into a hopefully inviting silence. Erik saw, from the corner of his eye, as Charles grimaced at the fire, and regretted pressing the matter. He didn’t want to force Charles to talk about his life, not while he was still a slave. It would not have been…fair, to Charles, somehow. If he wanted to talk when they were all safely back in Genosha, well, that was a different matter. 

Erik was mildly surprised at himself to note that his previous, vague idea of selling Charles to a good master, should there be no connection between him and the person the Lady of Genosha had asked them to find, had become completely unacceptable. It was always possible that the token had come into Charles’s sister’s hands through coincidence.   
If so, Charles had no real claim on Lady Darkholme’s help. It was one of the reasons Erik had left the matter of the token alone for so long. 

Now, Erik found that even if that was the case, he was not willing to leave Charles behind; even assuming the other members of the team would countenance it.  
“I had it quite badly, yes.” Charles said, stiffly. Erik nodded. Charles dipped out another measure of the steaming herb and honey mix.  
“Did they make you drink that?” Erik said, staring at it in some trepidation. Charles smiled again.

“Yes, and things that tasted worse. I was lucky. Sometimes the shaking fever can damage the senses… even Gifts.” He offered the mug to Erik carefully.  
“Even Gifts?” Erik said, slowly. A cold fear was filling him. Charles flushed.  
“Yes. Like, um, seers, or, or mind readers.” Erik sipped. It did not taste completely horrific.  
“So I might have gone permanently blind, or something?” Erik did his best to conceal his worry.  
“Oh, no.” Charles said, reassuringly. “Not permanently. You weren’t badly sick, sir.” Erik felt himself relax a little. “Do you have any problems with your senses now, sir?”

Erik shook his head. Charles didn’t need to know about the existence of his Gift. Perhaps his metal sense was only tired, then. He hoped so. Charles took the empty mug from him, gently.  
“Do you think you can rest some more, sir? Master Sean is downstairs, so things will be quiet up here for a little longer.” Erik nodded, and eased himself down on the pillow again.  
“Did you lose – what happened, when you were ill?” Erik asked, idly. Charles sighed. Erik eyed him, surprised. There was a pause. Finally Charles shrugged and said  
“Nothing worth speaking of, sir,” mildly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles watches his master, tends the fire and makes certain calculations. Slightly angsty; Charles is not aware that his maters _like_ him.

Magnus was well on the way to complete recovery now. Charles flicked a glance at his master, who was still asleep, lying straight and stiff in the bed like a sword or a block of iron, and smiled, ruefully. Sean had had the fever much more lightly, but it seemed to have taken a lot out of Magnus. Very carefully, Charles wrote an additional line in the ledger. He set the pen aside, flicking the last of the ink off the nib as he did so and recapped the travelling inkwell firmly. He stared at the open ledger. The figures did not change. Charles had been keeping these books- which seemed to be the main books for the traders, unless Magnus or maybe Angel were keeping separate ones- since the day after they had acquired him. He didn’t just understand these books, he _knew_ them inside out. The results they had been giving him had not changed.

Charles sighed, and pushed the books away from him. His head ached. He pulled the rough notepaper he’d been jotting calculations on as he worked, picked up the pen again, opened the inkwell and began to doodle, idly. The paper was already used; and he could burn it before anyone noticed he had been wasting ink- not that any of his four owners would care, probably. At least, no one would think of beating him for it. Or anything at all, really. And that was the problem, right there. Not that Charles _wanted_ to be struck, for anything, by anyone. But it was what he had been used to. If he could expect that, Charles knew how to cope. Lifelong lessons on evasiveness, submissiveness and whatever else would preserve his skin un bruised had been, literally, beaten into Charles before he was eighteen. He would have sworn, before now, that they were lessons he would never forget, and never need to be re taught.

Now, he was forgetting to call his owners “master” and “sir” with every breath, forgetting to keep his eyes, and if possible, his knees on the floor (because it made it much harder for a master to give him a casual blow if his head was two foot lower that a standing man’s.) Charles was forgetting to watch for every word and every hand aimed at him; to remember his body and his will only existed when it was convenient for his masters for them to do so. Charles had smiled a genuine smile the other day, and _made a joke_ with Sean, and nothing had happened. He regularly ate, slept and went to the baths with his masters and did not expect to have to service them, or anyone else. The last time someone had asked, Sean had nearly _struck_ the man in question. And when Magnus had heard, he had clapped the boy on the shoulder, and _congratulated him_. And even Charles had not been surprised at all.

Worse still, Charles knew that he had not been able to stop himself _liking_ all of them. Magda’s calm, quiet wisdom, Angel’s bright spirit, Sean’s clumsy good intentions- Charles was fond of them all. And _Magnus_ … And Magnus? Charles feared he was rather more than fond of his master. Magnus’ eyes, his hands… Charles found himself stopping his work just to concentrate on his master’s voice. The man was strong, without being aggressive, confident without being a bully and commanding without being completely arrogant. He treated his wife with respect, and did not talk to Charles as if he were not only dirt, but _stupid_ dirt. For the first time in his entire _life_ , Charles found himself… not entirely averse to the prospect of giving a master his bed service. Ironic, then that the cause of it seemed so firmly set against the idea of bed service in general and Charles performing it with anyone, in particular.

This was madness and masochism of the highest order, considering that they were homeward bound for Genosha, and Genosha did not permit _slavery_ within its' borders. He had permitted himself the old, long forbidden daydream, of a master who would let him earn his own purchase price, and, maybe, just maybe, let him go. It was old, because Charles had not been long a slave before he understood it truly was for life, and it was forbidden because dreams of freedom were the most dangerous of all dreams. All dreams were dangerous, to a slave. Charles knew that. But still, still… 

If the Eisenhardts decided they needed him on the voyage to Genosha. If he was able to somehow find employers willing to pay a slave. If he was able to save any money. If his owners decided that the money Charles earned didn’t immediately belong to them, anyway. If. If. He couldn’t quite deny the tiny voice that whispered so enticingly, even as he stared at the profit and loss figures which showed just how much of a loss the Eisenhardts would have to be willing to risk to even consider such a foolish idea. 

Taking him to Genosha at all would be far too great a risk; running off into a city, or country, even an island one would be far too tempting for most slaves. No, they would be selling him soon. Probably, it was only the illness of Magnus and Sean that had delayed it so long. Charles made a reasonable sickroom nurse, and he was unlikely to be damaged further by the shaking fever. It made sense to keep him until they were recovered. But afterwards? Charles shook his head to himself, and rubbed his aching temples. Whitehaven, the port town they were in, was too close to Genosha’s tempting bulk to make slaves there expensive. Too many idle or fearful travellers sold off their slaves there, planning to buy more when they had returned from the land of monsters, mutants, and slaveless _anarchy_. Demand was less than supply. 

Except for the galleyships, the seas’ equivalent to the mines or the brothels. Slaves sold into them, it was rumoured, never came ashore again. After two or so years- less if the winter seas were stormy- they would be chopped up and fed to their fellow rowers. Charles didn’t quite believe the last, mostly because it was poor husbandry to feed labouring creatures with tainted meat, and poor husbandry was _expensive_. Did but one of the dead have a disease, feeding him to his fellows would sicken them _all_. Magnus sighed, and turned over in the bed. The sheet slipped below his waist, and Charles allowed himself the indulgence of staring for a while at the man’s broad shoulders and finely shaped back, before rearranging the sheets and blankets comfortingly.

Charles did not think the Eisenhardts would _knowingly_ sell him to a galleyship. But most of the slave sales in Whitehaven went through the hands of a slave factor, and they’d have no knowledge later if some third party passed him along to a ship after their own had sailed away. Charles noticed his hands were shaking, very slightly, and took in a deep breath, willing them to stop. His head hurt. He wished, while he was thinking of dangerous dreams, that the shaking fever had not stripped him of his mind voice and ears so thoroughly. He’d been little, still free, and if he’d kept his gift, Charles was sure he could have prevented his stepfather from coming up with the cunning plan of selling into slavery as a way of disinheriting him. 

Or at least, have found out about it in time to _run_. Maybe he should have gone with Raven, when he’d been asked, later. They’d found each other, both lost, both frightened, and caught up in the chaos and madness of the death of the Queen of Genosha. He’d looked after Raven for a month, hiding in the attics of the Xavier townhouse, until one day, Charles had come back from his lessons to find Raven gone, and only the medallion left. Somehow, he had kept it, the only token of his free life, of the time when he had been able to do good things and help other people freely. He lied about it, saying his mother had given it to him, his father, his sister, that it was for luck. Anything to hide the fact that for Charles, the medallion was a reminder of the time when he had been able to be a person, not a _thing_ meant for other's use.

A log in the fireplaces subsided, and the noise jerked Charles out of his self pitying daydreams. He moved to the fire, and pushed the ends of the log into the centre, cautiously. He glanced at the herbal brew standing in the corner, and gave it a quick stir. Magnus was still sleeping. Sleep is the best healer; so he left the stuff there to keep warm until his master woke. Carefully, Charles placed another log on the fire, and swept away the fallen ashes. He ignored the fact that his hands are shaking again, and what it probably means.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Sean have a conversation. Erik listens in. Erik realises there's something quite important he forgot to tell Charles.

Erik woke. The room was quiet, with only the dull hum of the metal pins in someone’s shoes as the moved about by the fire, revealing that he was not alone. Erik kept his eyes shut against the slow burning relief those shoes sparked in him. His powers were coming back. The shaking fever had not damaged him permanently. He had not said anything to the others yet, and now he will not have to. Idly, Erik wonders how Charles learnt so much about the fever. Gifts are more common in Genosha than outside, but they are rarer. It’s a shame he can’t ask, yet. Asking questions would invite more, or at least cause Charles to speculate on things that he’s better off not knowing until they have him safe in Genosha. They still don’t know for sure what his connection to the Lady Raven’s token is, anymore than Charles knows what their real purpose is in being here, in Westchester. It isn’t safe to tell him, either. Charles isn’t stupid, but neither is Erik. They have no great hold on Charles’s loyalty. The Eisenhardts own him. Of course, Erik thinks, as he shifts into a more comfortable position, Charles probably doesn’t feel much loyalty to Westchester, either, even though he is, technically, a citizen. How long has the man been a slave in his own country? Years, certainly. Perhaps he was even born into slavery; he seems so accustomed to his life. In any case, Erik can’t ask. Slaves lie. It’s always been so. Charles is probably very adept at saying what he knows his owners need to hear from him. Erik prefers the truth, when he can get it, but he will not do that to Charles, make him choose between protective lies and making himself more vulnerable to his owners. Slaves lie because the truth hurts them more than it does their audience. Better not to ask in the first place.

The footsteps cease. Someone sighs; Erik thinks it might well be Charles. It makes sense. Charles has had the fever, and is now immune. Of course that is why he is keeping an eye on the man he thinks of as his master. Erik thinks about sitting up, but really, he’s tired. He’ll leave it for now. His metal sense sparked again; someone was coming down the passageway. He recognised Sean’s dagger and buttons and resolved to stay “asleep” for now.  
The door scraped open noisily. Charles gave a little sigh. Erik hid a smile. No one would ever accuse Sean of stealth.  
“Hey, Charles. He still asleep?” Sean said, cheerily. “Bought you lunch.”  
“Yes sir. Thank you sir.” Charles said, after a pause. “Lunch?” he said again, wonderingly.  
“M- Mrs M said you’d brought up his broth, but nothing for yourself, so.” Sean’s clothing rustled as he shrugged. “Hey, thanks for mending my trousers.”  
A stool scraped against the floor as Sean sat down. Charles answered him, slowly  
“It was only a small tear.” He paused. “Is this white bread?” He sounded incredulous. Erik knew the people in Westchester tended to feed their slaves poorly. Charles’ astonishment at the quality of the bread only underlined that knowledge. Erik had never run a successful mission where he starved one of the team, though and he wasn’t about to start now, even if one of the team wasn’t aware that he was a member of it just yet.  
“Yeah, why?” Sean said, almost innocently enough.  
“Slaves don’t usually- I mean, not unless-“ Charles faltered. Erik tried not to frown. Did he think Sean would try and get him in trouble over food?

“Hey, in the Eisenhardt clan, everyone eats well, or no one does.” Sean said, cheerily. “I just didn’t tell them who it was for; why worry about the kitchen staff?” There was a bit of a pause. “What?” Sean said. Erik could almost hear Charles’ smile.  
“You don’t have to here, sir, they’re all freepersons.”  
“You checked?” Sean said, cheerfully. There was a chewing noise, and then Charles swallowed.  
“I do at every inn, sir.” More chewing followed.  
“Why? Are, do people who... aren’t free make bad cooks, or something?” Sean sounded genuinely interested. Erik was, too. Charles chuckled dryly.   
“Not so much that sir, as… there’s a reason few slaves are trusted alone in a kitchen.”  
“Knives, huh?” Sean tried to sound worldly. Erik wanted to tell him he was failing.  
Not so much weapons, sir- there are easier ways of committing suicide than appearing to be dangerous-“ Sean gasped, audibly. Charles continued, blandly “As saliva.”   
“What?” Sean sounded completely bewildered. Erik could not blame him.  
“Spit.” Charles sounded as close as he let himself get to amused.  
“Spit?”

“I don’t think a single dish comes out of a kitchen that employs slaves without a good dose of spit in it, unless they’re watched pretty closely.” Charles made another swallowing noise. Erik was pleased to think Sean had paid enough attention to his lessons in the past that he was now thinking about other bellies than his own.  
“That’s why you’re always in the kitchen before you bring the food up!” Sean sounded delighted.   
“Yes.” Charles said, warily. A bowl clinked. “At least, that and… most people don’t let their slaves eat at the same time, you know.”  
“As each other? How’d that _work_?” Sean sounded puzzled.  
“As themselves.” Charles said, quietly. There was a rustle of cloth.  
“Oh.” Sean said, thoughtfully. There was a long pause. Erik began drowsing again.   
Then Sean said, quietly. “Can you tell me why?”  
“Why what, sir? Why slaves are usually fed separately?” Charles said, calmly. Judging by the tiny flashing of metal in his hands that Erik could sense, he was sewing as he talked.

“Why, why you… they put up with it.” Sean said. “It can’t all be spitting in the soup and getting away with it.” He paused. “I mean, I know people hit slaves, I just-“  
“Ah.” Charles said, and, for a while, nothing more. The needle moved steadily in his hands. Erik wondered what he was repairing.  
"It’s about bruises.” Charles said, eventually, thoughtfully. Erik found himself straining to listen.  
“I don’t understand.” Sean said.  
“Well, which is worse, bruises to the body or bruises to the self?” Charles said, very gently. “Most of us slaves… our bodies heal better than our minds.” Sean made a puzzled noise as Charles continued.   
“If I don’t flinch and look cowed, most of my owners will hit me.” Charles shrugged. Erik could hear the rustle of his shirt as he moved. "Sometimes flinching is easier than bruising.”  
“It’s not right. They should be allowed to stand up for themselves.” Sean muttered. Charles appeared to ignore him, talking on quietly.  
“It’s just- if I- if a slave acts difficult or, or, troublesome, or the owner’s in a bad mood, it’s really very easy to hurt them.” Erik could well believe it. “Standing up for yourself, as you put it, doesn’t change that. So why risk it? You’re still you, inside. Just, maybe, you’re you with less bruises.” Sean was silent for a while. A log fell in the fireplace, with a rustle and a thud. Erik began to seriously consider indicating that he was awake

“Well, the whole thing makes me glad I’m Genoshan.” Sean said, eventually. Charles didn’t reply to that. “We don’t allow slaves in Genosha.” Erik hid a nod of agreement.  
“I know, sir. I was informed when I made enquiries about the next sailings.” Charles said, blankly. Erik thought he could have sounded more cheerful about it. Erik wondered if, for all his talk about balancing bruises and so on, Charles was comfortable with being a slave. Sean made an unhappy noise.  
“I hate sailing.” Rattling noises ensued: it appeared that one of them- probably Sean- was fiddling with the fireplace.  
“Oh?” Charles said, politely. Scissors snipped together.  
“Yeah, I get seasick, and, and it goes on for weeks, and there’s no stopping the boat to get a break.”  
“How terrible.” Charles said, gravely. Cloth rustled, as he picked up more mending.  
“Do you get seasick?” Sean said, innocently enough. Charles made a funny, gulping noise.  
“I don’t know.” He admitted, finally.  
“Well, I guess we’ll find out on the boat.” Sean said, cheerfully. “Fair warning: if you do, remember to throw up to _windward._ ” Erik remembered all too well.  
 _“What?_ ” Said Charles, suddenly.

“When we’re on the boat, throw up-“ Sean began. Charles interrupted him.  
“What boat?” he said, slowly.  
“Uh, the one home to Genosha?” Sean sounded confused. Erik opened his eyes. That had sounded like Charles had been expecting something quite different.  
“Why will I-“ Charles faltered, and stopped. “You think I’m going with you to Genosha?” he said, finally.  
“Uh.” Sean said. “Yes? That’s what E- Uncle Magnus said. Same boat as us.”  
“Ah.” Charles said, quietly. He sounded sad, for some reason. A surprisingly tense silence filled the room after that. Sean made one or two awkward attempts at starting the conversation again, but after Charles had made little response for the third time in a row, he clearly gave up, and retreated downstairs, mumbling about checking on the horses. Silence filled the room. The needles and scissors remained motionless to Erik’s metal sense. What was Charles doing?  
“Lying bastard.” Charles hissed, apparently to himself. Erik forgot himself enough to jerk in surprise. Hastily, he rolled over, trying to seem sleepy and just woken up, as oppsoed to eavesdropping. He blinked, slowly at Charles. Charles stared at him, lips pressed tightly together.  
“Charles?” Erik said, calmly. “What’s wrong?” Charles flinched. Opened and closed his mouth a few times.   
“S-sir.” He said, finally. “Sean and I were talking…”   
“Oh, is that what I was hearing in my sleep?” Erik said, scratching his stubble. He really needed a shave.

“You shouldn’t have lied to him, sir. He has to learn the truth about things eventually.”  
“Things?” Erik said, cautiously. He wondered how much of the conversation he had, apparently missed, or misunderstood. Erik yawned, and began to struggle into a sitting up position. Charles leant over him to help him up. He turned and began to fill a cup with well watered wine.  
“About… About taking me to Genosha.” Charles said, flatly. “I know it might seem easier, but he has to-“  
“I wasn’t lying.” Erik said, irritated. “You are coming to Genosha. Unless you’d rather go elsewhere, but that would make arranging for your freedom a little complicated so-“  
Charles dropped the jug. The wine splashed everywhere. Charles ignored it. He swung round, shaking.  
“My _what?_ But, but I don’t have any money, I can’t pay-“ Charles had gone very pale, Erik noted. His freckles were standing out across his face like islands.  
“So?” Erik said, still irritably. “I don’t need paying to do the right thing.”

“But- I keep the ledgers- I know how much you took me in trade for-“ Charles mumbled, sinking to sit in the wine puddle.  
“Eisenhardts- we have a deep enough coffer.” Erik said, cautiously. Of course they did, given that they were backed by the Crown, although he could hardly tell Charles that now. He cleared his throat. “The easiest way of freeing you is to make you a citizen of Genosha.” He offered, as Charles kept staring. “You’d get automatic freedom and protection from Westchester, then. You need three sponsors; we were fairly sure we could scare up two more-“ Charles made a funny gulping noise.  
“But that would cost _more_ money!” he insisted, slightly hysterically.  
“You’d be worth it.” Erik said. “Even if you wanted to leave afterwards.” He swung his legs out of the bed and stumbled to crouch in front of Charles. Charles flinched backwards. Erik sighed.  
“Charles.” He said, gently. “That was the plan I mentioned to Sean. I thought Magda might have told you. I’m sorry-“  
“Don’t, please-“ Charles said. His eyes were shining with tears.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Erik said, more gently still. “Charles. I promise-“  
“No, no, no, not that.” Charles shook his head, dizzily. “Please, don’t be lying. Please.” Charles lurched forwards, laying his trembling hands on Erik’s knees. “I can’t- if you don’t, if you break this promise, I can’t- I’ll – it’ll break me.” Charles stared, wet eyed and desperate, at his master. Erik’s gut twisted. He had not really realised, of course, how huge this might seem to Charles. It had seemed pretty straightforward to the rest of them. He shuffled forwards, slightly awkwardly, and laid his hands on top of Charles’s.  
“Charles.” he said, steadily. “ I swear by my s-“ he broke off. That wasn’t a trader’s oath. “I swear by my family’s’ bones, if you are willing, we will take you to Genosha and there free you.” Charles closed his eyes. A few tears overflowed. Erik waited, patiently, as Charles turned his hands palm upward under Erik’s, slowly. He had stopped shaking, Erik was pleased to note.

“Charles.” Erik said again, closing his hands around Charles’ tightly. “I _swear_ it.” Eyes still tight shut, Charles nodded, slowly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik didn't do anything! Moira and Angel are unconvinced. Sean and Charles are sea sick.

The weather was bright, if chilly. A fresh sea breeze gently slapped Erik’s face, and he grinned at a nearby seagull. It squawked and angled away from him. It's shadow drifted over the deck. Homeward bound. A week or so more, and he would be reporting to Lady Darkholme. For once, Erik found himself actively looking forward to it. Not only had their team come up with surprising amounts of information, they might have completed their Quest, too. _If_ Charles’ “sister” had been Raven, that was. Erik could hardly blame Charles for lying; no one would ever believe a simple slave’s claim to have helped a princess. Idly, Erik wondered how he’d managed to help her and not follow up on claiming the offered reward. Shaw had offered gold and a title to anyone who’d helped Raven, but no claimant had ever come forward. Even if he hadn’t come by Raven’s token by helping her, they’d still found a rare treasure in-

“What the _hell_ is up with Charles?” Moira hissed to Erik, watching as Sean hauled their slightly greenish slave to the side of the ship to throw up once more. Sean himself was not looking much better.  
“Nothing, he’s just a bad sailor. I don’t-” Erik protested. Moira’s eyes narrowed. Angel sat down a little suddenly next to him, and Erik became uncomfortably aware he was trapped between two very angry women. Damn. There was no real escape on a ship this size. Erik stopped talking, and mentally consigned himself to the mercies of the gods. He knew, who better, that neither of his fellow Swords had any, when they were on a quest like this.  
“You don’t _what_ , sir?” Angel said. 

The seabird squawked again. Erik looked at it and wished he had wings, too. It was unfair. He hadn’t done anything to Charles, except tell him he was going to be free. He said as much. Moira remained unconvinced. Sean threw up as they watched. Angel sighed. Moira continued to stare, grimly.  
“Look, boss- Uncle” she amended herself, hastily, when Erik gave her a warning look. “We can all see it. He’s… different, now.” Angel sighed again. “Half the time he’s practically up with the saints. I can see him glowing.” A mental image of Charles as one of the saintly dead; see through and winged, giving sweets to children and smiling silently, appeared in Erik’s mind, and he lost track of Angel’s speech. Something broke his concentration  
“What?” he said and Moira poked him again.  
“Sometimes… I can see him arguing himself into his slave manners again. Or just, I don’t know, refusing to hope.” Moira said. “It’s…” She trailed off. 

“I know.” Erik said. “Like he’s already dead.” Or worse. Once, Erik remembers, before he gave his oath to Raven and Genosha, he was part of a battle where he saw a man stabbed in the belly. He was able to talk and think; but he knew he was going to die. Sometimes Charles is very like that; the bright glint that the promise of freedom put into his eyes gutters, and the near mute, obedient slave sleepwalking though his duties returns like a creeping disease. Erik eyed Charles in the distance. The slave is who is present right now, he can tell, although the controlled demeanour is being considerably threatened by the vomiting. Sean is patting Charles back, comfortingly. Good.  
“I didn’t say anything!” Erik said, as the silence stretched.. Why are they both blaming him for this?  
“Maybe you should have.” Now that, Erik thinks, again, is unfair.   
“I- he didn’t believe Sean, when he told him. He told me I shouldn’t be lying to him.” Erik said. Moira nodded. Angel frowned  
“Wait, he thought you’d lied to Sean? About what?” she said.  
“He thought I was going to dispose of him quietly, or something.” Erik grumbled. 

His shoulders hunched, slightly. The look on Charles face; the contempt and bitterness had been shocking. His hands had been shaking.  
“And, what, you told him Sean wasn’t lying?”   
“Yes.” Erik said, calmly. “Easy enough to explain how I-how we were going to free him.”  
“Genoshan Citizenship.” Moira said. “I remember, we discussed it.”  
“Right. It was the why he was having trouble with, I think.” Erik doesn’t want to tell them how utterly Charles had been undone by this. For an hour or so Charles had sat on the floor with Erik, simply staring at nothing very much. He’d not forced the other man to do or say anything. Erik had felt this was a significant thing; this promise of freedom he had made Charles. He could see Charles had, on some level, managed to make himself believe his owner not only meant it, but would manage to accomplish it. And he would, Erik promised himself, then and now. He would see Charles was a free man, if that was the only thing he could do. Charles being enslaved was… not right, somehow. Erik had resolved to fix this not rightness; it had seemed like a relatively minor effort. He was of good standing in the court; he could get the necessary sponsorships from Moira or another of the Swords quite easily; and no one would object. Even if Lady Raven or the King would not fund it, Erik was not a poor man; he could pay the money required easily; if he sold one of his fields, and what was land, compared to a person?

Charles could be a _free man_. 

Charles’ reaction to his promise had unnerved Erik slightly. Charles’s reaction felt… disproportionate, at least until Erik reminded himself that Charles was reacting to something that would change his whole life, hopefully for the better. Freedom was important, if you didn’t have it. However easy it was going to be for Erik to get it for Charles, it would be Charles’ life that changed, and Charles who would have to adapt to it. But he had not been expecting – that. Tears, shaking, _begging_ \- it made Erik uncomfortable to know he had such power over another human being, even an ungifted non Genoshan. Erik was not supposed to be the keeper of anyone’s soul. Erik was used to Charles’ calm, slightly bland manner, and the disintegration of this unflappable mask had left him with no idea of what to do. Erik had eventually had to leave Charles to it, at least for a short time. He had moved from Charles’ side only to get a tunic to wear, and by the time he had turned back, Charles was gone, leaving the spilled wine and the broken jug behind. Erik mopped it up himself, clumsily. One of the pottery shards had cut his finger, and he’d been looking at it ruefully when Charles returned.  
“You shouldn’t have to do that.” He’d said, quietly. “Allow me, sir.” and he’d tidied up as if nothing had happened. Stunned, Erik had let him. He hadn’t known quite what to do then; and he still didn’t now, except to treat Charles as he always had, until they were all safely in Genosha, and he could reveal who they were.

“I suppose… if you‘ve been a slave, it’s hard to hope.” Erik allowed.   
“But- we’re his friends!” Angel said. “Doesn’t he trust us?” The seabird- possibly the same one- called, mockingly.  
“We might be his friends, girl.” Moira said, quietly. “But we’re also his owners.” Erik nodded.  
“So, you see I didn’t do anything.” Erik said. A shadow fell across them  
“What didn’t you do, Uncle?” Sean said, lightly. He was almost as green as Charles was. Erik regarded both of them affectionately as they leant on each other.  
“Anything.” Erik said, firmly. Angel and Moira snickered. Sean grinned. Charles looked dazed and lost. Erik eyed him, and Charles tried to straighten up.  
“What should... what are my duties, sir?” he asked, dully. Erik hid his wince.  
“Sean, go take Charles to the bow, out of the way. Charles, go lie down until you feel better. That’s an order.” Charles licked his lips and said, slowly.

“I… that might mean I’ll be lying down till I’m off the ship. I don’t-”  
“Fine by me!” Sean said, cheerfully. “Come on, Charles. Let’s find a good spot.” Angel rose.  
“You boys look like you need a hand.” She said, mildly. Charles looked ready to refuse, until the ship rolled slightly more heavily, and he staggered almost beyond Sean’s support. Angel slid her arm under his, and the three walked off, Angel promising to bring the two sufferers ginger water and broth.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soup and medicine and a discusion of Genoshan courting methods.

Whatever else happens in his life, Charles is very certain he’s never getting on another boat ever again. He wanted to pass out, or maybe die. Or sleep. _Anything_ to curtail the nausea and dizziness plaguing him since he stepped aboard the good ship Darkholme. At least Sean was sympathetic; he feels not dissimilar. The other Eisenhardts made for better sailors. Charles was grateful they had allowed him into the family cabin; the built in bunk beds were easier to sleep in than anywhere he’d have found by himself. He was no longer even surprised they wouldn’t allow him to sleep on the floor, as was usual for a slave. He wasn’t even worried Magnus or Magda would grow angry with him for being sick. He wasn’t expecting the order to do, well, _nothing,_ though. They had never punished Charles for not working as hard as they wanted, but even on a boat, there were always little things that needed doing. Yet here he was, in the stern of the ship, keeping out of the way of the sailors and… resting.

Quietly, Charles hugged his knees and smiled at the sky. His head ached, his stomach was a nauseated knot and his back hurt. But he was on the open deck of a ship in fine weather, a comfortable enough location, and he wasn’t alone, so he was not vulnerable. The majority of the ship’s crew were Genoshan, and seemed decent enough, but Charles was wary of them.   
“It’s like the worst hangover ever, and we haven’t even been drinking!” Sean moaned from his sprawled position on the deck.   
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” He’s never been drunk. Wine and beer are not for slaves. Sean opened a curious eye and stared at him. Charles shrugged.  
“I’ve never… I don’t drink, sir.”  
“Then how are you holding up? If it wasn't for the _booze_ , I'd-” Sean said, incredulously. Charles gave him a small, tight smile.

“I’m stubborn, sir.” He said, simply enough. Charles was reasonably sure it was safe for him to say so. After so long with the Eisenhardts, Charles felt he had a better grasp of what would and would not get him punished. Very little would get him punished, at least not punishments Charles would call punishments. Sean’s face creased in thought.  
"You’re going to have to stop doing that, when we get home.” He said, and Charles felt gripped by the now- familiar spasm of panicky elation that overtook him when he considered his future. Home, which for Sean meant Genosha. Charles couldn’t say what home meant to him. He’d never had one before, not since- Well. Charles returned to the conversation.  
“I shouldn’t be stubborn?” He asked, innocently. Sean blinked.   
“No, calling us all sir. We’ll be equals, or something, won’t we?” It was Charles’ turn to blink. _They would?_

Charles had no reply to that. He said nothing, and Sean looked uneasy.  
“I mean…” Sean’s face flushed. “We’ll be able to be friends, maybe?” He sounded almost shy. Charles felt quite touched. He had no idea how he was going to feed or house himself; when Magnus cut him loose. If Magnus succeeded in freeing him, of course. Charles couldn’t even think what options there were for an ex Westchester slave in Genosha, but Sean wanted his friendship. Didn’t seem to mind being equals with an ex slave. Charles opened his mouth to say “yes sir”, automatically, but stopped himself, just in time.  
“It would be… good.” He said, eventually, haltingly. Sean beamed at him encouragingly. “But we have at least two weeks more-” Sean stopped smiling. He rolled over, face to the decking and wailed.  
“Noooo, why did you remind me?” like a desolate foghorn. The deck creaked, protestingly.  
“Um.” Charles said, and tried to think of something comforting. “They said it’s going to be smooth sailing, mostly?” Sean stopped moaning, and the deck stopped creaking.

Charles caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned his head to see Angel approaching, carefully carrying five lidded mugs. He swallowed, nervously. Charles had had little experience with actually taking medicine in his life; and it had all been foul tasting. Hastily, he sprang up to help Angel with her tray. The ship rolled under his feet, and Charles was forced to sit down again. Angel smiled. She handed him the tray, and then sat down, cross legged, next to him.  
“I’m always glad when I can get back into breeches.” She said, cheerfully, as she handed Charles mug after mug. Obediently, he handed the first two onto Sean, and was then left, confused, holding two mugs for… himself? He must have looked puzzled, because Angel smiled at him. Weakly, he smiled back.

“One’s ginger water and one’s broth.” Charles tensed. The idea of eating anything seemed profoundly unattractive. Sean rolled over again and sat up. Angel sighed, patiently, and said  
“Magnus said to see neither of you two got really ill-“  
“I _am_ really ill!” Sean snapped, petulantly. Angel ignored him. Speaking mostly to Charles, she explained, patiently.  
“You need to keep enough water in you. Try the ginger water.” Nervous but obedient, Charles tried a sip. The ginger water was cool, refreshing and warming and not too sweet. He drank some more, hoping he would be able to control his rebellious gut. The soothing warmth of the ginger spread out through him gently.  
“It’s good.”

Sean gulped at his, noisily. Angel made a quick face at him. Charles sipped at the other mug. The contents were a thin broth; nourishing and tasty without burdening his poor stomach further.  
“You’ve done this before.” He said, thoughtfully. Angel laughed.  
“Yeah, Sean was worse on the way over.” She rolled her eyes. “Way worse. You hardly complain at all.” Charles shrugged it away. Of course he didn’t complain; who would want a sulky slave? Who wouldn’t want to know when and how their slave was hurting, so they could hurt them better?  
Sean grumbled a protest. Angel slipped a vial out of her pocket as she drank from her own mug.

“Here.” She dropped it in Charles’ lap. He looked his question at her. “It’s anti sickness potion; the ship’s cook sent it along. Said it worked for most people.”  
“Oh. We should thank him.” Charles said, surprised. “Sir… Sean, would you...” Sean waved it off.  
“Got my own, thanks.” He gulped down more soup, and wiped his chin.  
“And he sent it along for you.” Angel said, brightly. “Said green wasn’t a good colour on you. Clashed with your eyes.” Sean snickered. Charles hoped he did not look as flustered as he felt.  
“Oh, um.” He started, before falling silent, uncertainly. Angel’s smile softened. “Should I thank him?” How should he thank the cook? Was that why- Angel interrupted Charles’s tumbling thoughts.  
“It’s fine. He’s not… not trying to get you to _do_ anything. He’s Genoshan, it’s just a way of saying he likes you.” 

Charles must have looked doubtful, because Angel’s face sharpened.  
“I know that because I asked him. Pointedly.” Charles could well imagine. Angel had been almost fiercely protective of him from the start, even before Magda and Magnus had issued orders.  
“Oh.” Charles said, slowly. “Is that kind of thing… usual, among, um, in Genosha?” He looked away, to see Magnus crossing the deck, speaking with the captain of the ship.  
“What, courting? No one’s ever even _flirted_ with you?” Sean said, stunned. Charles drank the last of his soup. Angel frowned at Sean. He frowned back.   
“No one’s ever needed to, no.” Charles said, softly. Sean chuckled, rubbing his hands together gleefully.  
“Well. All that’s going to change, in Genosha.” Charles blinked at him, and swallowed, nervously. “You know, if you want it to.” Sean continued, worriedly eyeing Angel, who seemed irritated. Charles smiled, faintly.   
“It’s certainly something to think about.” He looked at Magnus again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Explain to me why Charles is _drunk_.” Erik gritted out

Sean. Explain to me why Charles is _drunk_.” Erik gritted out. Charles beamed at him happily from his refuge by the fireplace. Erik frowned at him and resisted the temptation to swear. Damnitall, he’d only left Cassidy in charge of their new friend while he went and reported his presence and other, minor details of the mission to Lady Raven. That had only been half a day; how had they managed to get in this state _already_?  
“Iiiii’m not drunk.” Charles offered, helpfully. “I only had three glasses.” He waved a hand generously, almost clipping Moira’s face. “Logan said _no-one_ got drunk on jus’ _three_.”  
“Logan’s used to soldiers and court types, Charles.” Moira said, gently. He gazed at her in muzzy attention. “I expect he didn’t realise-“ She offered Charles a glass of water. “that you hadn’t drunk fortified aqua vitae before.”

As Charles subjected his glass of water to the same bleary study he had previously given Moira, she smiled at Erik, brightly. Erik glared. Moira drew in a breath.  
“Logan.” Erik said, quietly. Sean paled.  
“Hey, no, it was just coincidence.”  
“How so?” Erik asked, calmly. He walked to armchair in the corner by the window, and sat. He gestured and Sean moved to stand in front of him.  
“Look, we were all kind of at a loose end, waiting for you to come back so we could tell Charles, you know, _everything else._ “ Sean glanced at Charles, who had gulped down the water and was now staring at the fire. He didn’t appear to be following the conversation. “And that made taking him drinking with Logan Howlett sound like a _good_ idea?” Erik said, gently, dangerously.

“No- I thought, he was a still a bit worried, so I thought, I thought we could go and get his tags cut off.” Sean said. “Angel had to go see her sister, so the blacksmiths’ row wasn’t that much further off.” Sean didn’t say what they all seemed to feel , that the sight of the metal chain slave collar and tags had begun to look increasingly wrong, dangling around Charles’ neck, as the last leg of their journey came nearer and nearer to completion.  
“And how did that turn into this?” Moira said, firmly. “I said you could go to along to borrow a wire cutter, and destroy the tags, but that’s all.”  
“I’m not a slave anymore.” Charles announced, suddenly. “Well. Mostly. I don’t have tags so no one could- could...” he trailed off. “And this is Genosha.” Charles paused, suddenly anxious. He stood up, swaying slightly, and walked to the window.  
“Isn’t it?” He swallowed, glancing from face to face, nervously. “We are-“  
“Yes.” Erik said, sharply. “Yes, Charles, we’re in Genosha.” 

“Oh. _Good_.” Charles blinked. Then he dropped to his knees, squatted on the floor next to Erik’s chair, and smiled. Erik inhaled, sharply. He gestured at Sean, inviting him to continue.  
“So we went in, and there were a bunch of soldiers, and they wanted to know who we were.” Sean’s face lightened as Erik made no further comment.  
“What did you tell them?” Moira asked.  
“That we were just back from trading in Westchester and that Charles here-” Charles looked up and smiled at Sean. Erik noticed the smile was not as bright as the one Charles had directed at him, and then wondered why he was noticing that.  
“That Charles here was there to get his tags off.”  
“They all cheered.” Charles put in from the floor. He tilted his head back to look at Erik, happily. “Logan has claws, did you know?”  
“Yes, Charles.” Erik said, dry as dust. “I know.”  
“They’re shiny.” Charles said, helpfully, and rested his head on the arm of the chair.

“The wire cutters wouldn’t work.” Sean said, hastily. “So Logan used his claws.” Moira bit back a smile as Sean proudly displayed the battered chain and tags. Charles shifted away from them, muttering. Erik put a hand on his head in reassurance. He fought down the temptation to do something showy, like crushing them into a tiny ball, or wrapping them around a handy chair leg. Charles knew nothing about any of their Gifts, yet.  
“An’ he said that everyone had a drink when a baby was born to wet its head.” Charles said. “And, and, being… not being a slave anymore was like being born. Again.” He snuggled in towards Erik, who suddenly realised that he had not, in fact, moved his hand away after placing it on Charles’ head. He was carding his fingers through Charles’s hair, without even noticing. Charles didn’t seem to mind, though.   
“They don’t make the babies drink. But Logan said-“  
“I can imagine, thank you, Charles.” Charles smiled again.  
“I didn’t, I _couldn’_ t say no. Not without-“ Sean said.  
“Ah, the old drinking-to-maintain-cover ploy.” Erik said, still bone dry. “I see.”

“He’s not _very_ drunk, Erik.” Sean said, defensively. “He _can’t_ be; he only had-” Erik cut him off, snapping:  
“How much experience with _any_ strong drink, let alone the rotgut Logan prefers, do you actually think he _has_ , going by this result?” He gestured at Charles, which caused the drunken man to mumble unhappily, as he realised his hair was no longer being played with. He twisted his neck and stared up at Erik with one bright blue eye.  
“Who’s Erik? Why is he drunk too?” he said, lazily. Erik directed one fulminating glare at Sean, who quailed. He placated Charles’ curiosity with another head rub. That was the only reason. Erik told himself, firmly.  
“Would you like some more water, Charles?” Moira asked.  
“Yes please.” Charles said, politely. “I think I’m about to be quite thirsty.”  
“That’s almost empty. I’ll get another pitcher.” Sean said, hastily, and fled. 

Erik resolved to speak to the boy more firmly at some other point in time.  
“You’ve got interesting eyes.” Charles observed, from his happy, alcohol-addled haze. “Did you know they change colour? I didn’t see that before-“ Erik’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He gazed, bewildered, first at Charles, and then at Moira. Moira bit her lip and turned away to refill Charles’ glass, smiling.  
“Perhaps we should talk about that when you’re sober, Charles.” He tried, helplessly.   
“Mmm.” Charles hummed, happily. “And nice hands.” he added, thoughfully. "I think I like them." Erik coughed.  
“Drink your water, Charles.” Moira said, and Erik seriously considered kissing her. Charles shuffled forwards, and reached for the glass. Erik found himself temporarily transfixed by the smooth movement of muscles along Charles’ throat as he swallowed.  
“Do you feel tired, Charles?” Moira said. Charles carefully put the glass down by his left knee and said, brightly.  
“No!”   
“I think it would be better if you tried lying down for a little bit.” Erik said. 

Charles did so, immediately. He wriggled a little, as if he was trying to get more comfortable.  
“In a _bed_ , not on my feet.” Erik choked out.  
“Oh. Will you be there?” Charles said, hopefully.  
“I’ll give you a hand, yes.” Erik agreed, and stood, carefully, so as not to tread on him. Charles wallowed up from the floor, eagerly.  
“I don’t mind, if it’s you.” He said. Erik had no response to that. He wrapped an arm around Charles’ shoulders and began to steer him to the door.   
Moira closed the door behind them, and stepped around Charles to say   
”I’ll go up and, and get things ready.” Unfortunately, Charles kept talking.  
“I mean, I know I’m able to, you know, _not_ , now, but I really wouldn’t mind.” he babbled, to the mercifully deserted corridor. Erik grunted in response, and kept them both walking. 

Still, it was heartening to see Charles could smile so freely and brightly, even if it was only because of Logan’s rotgut. That meant the now ex-slave had the _capacity_ for such expressions. Finding other things besides booze that would elcit them from him would be a very pleasant person challenge.  
“Come on. Bed.” He grunted at the final flight of steps, and prepared himself to haul Charles up them.  
“I think I might even like that.” Charles said, happily.  
“Told you, you were tired.” Erik said.   
That was what Charles had meant, and he was sticking to that story. He prayed that Charles would not remember this when he woke. Erik steered Charles into the room he was sharing with Sean, and avoided Moira’s pointed gaze as he sat Charles on the bed, and removed his shoes. Charles wiggled his toes, and laughed.

Erik sighed. He didn’t bother stripping Charles of any of his clothing. He had a vague feeling that it would not be a wise thing to do, for some reason. Moira placed a full glass of water by the bed, and nudged the chamber pot into a more prominent position next to it with her foot. Charles yawned. Erik pulled the covers up over him, and turned to leave. Charles opened one eye, and shot out a hand to grip Erik’s wrist.  
“You’re not staying?” he asked, plaintively. “I don’t _understand_. What’s going on?”  
“Go to sleep, Charles.” Erik said, gently. “I’ll explain everything when you wake up.” Charles squeezed Erik’s hand once, and then turned on his side, tucked his hands beneath his chin and fell asleep. Quietly, Erik blew out the lamp, and left the room, taking care to leave the door ajar, in case Charles woke up and thought he’d been locked in.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hangovers, questions.. and a cliffhanger! Dun dun dun!

Charles opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Although the late evening light was not strong, it still seemed too bright. His mouth tasted like he’d been forced to lick floors again, and his head ached. Not as badly as if he’d received a beating, but still, not a pleasant sensation. What had been happening?  
“Ugh.” Charles said, quietly. He tried to think, and found his brain sluggish. How had he ended up in bed so early and still- he checked, under the covers- fully clothed? His last solid memory was of going out with Sean and getting his slave tags cut off by a short and dangerous hairy man. His slave tags. Because he was no longer a slave, now he was in _Genosha_. He, Charles, was a free man again. He could hardly believe it. As long as he stayed on Genosha, that was. But if everyone was as friendly as the people at the blacksmiths had been, and if he could find work, Charles could see no reason why he would _ever_ leave. 

Especially as leaving an island generally meant stepping on a boat, and frankly, Charles had had enough of _that_ to last him a lifetime.   
Charles rubbed his face, feeling the scratch of bristles and resolved to shave again. Slowly, the wisps of memory and thought in his brain began to coalesce into a more accessible form. Briefly Charles wondered why anyone drank anything, ever, if it left them feeling like this. And then Charles felt his eyes widen, and he made an involuntary whimpering noise before forcing his knuckles into his mouth in an attempt to shut himself up. Drunk. He’d got _drunk_. That explained how he was feeling; it was a hangover. Oh _gods_. The memory of _lying down over Magnus’ feet_ resurfaced then, and Charles bit down on his hand. What had he been thinking, to make that sound like a good idea?

Fervently Charles hoped his memories of, of propositioning his former owner were inaccurate, or hadn’t been understood. If Magnus knew about the way he’d been, um, _noticing_ him recently, the fact that Charles was now waking alone probably meant that Magnus was not interested in him. That seemed quite likely, given the wife he was married to and the fact that the alternative offering had been Charles. Charles had no illusions about his attractiveness to the Genoshans, anyway. None of them had ever so much as laid hot eyes on him, let alone anything more. Maybe he hadn’t been understood- after all, Magnus hadn’t punched him. Of course the man might be planning to punish him later- but wait, he wasn’t his master now, so he couldn’t. Could he? Anyway, Magnus had never beaten Charles before; so hopefully he wasn’t about to start _now._

Cautiously, Charles sat up. His head stayed on his shoulders, although it persisted in feeling as if it had been stuffed with wool waste. He spotted the glass of water and dived upon it. It swilled the worst of the mud out of his mouth, and he felt like calling a blessing on the person who’d left it for him. The open door creaked slightly; Charles glanced at it and saw the shadow of feet underneath. Someone was lurking behind it.  
“Hello?” he said, uncertain. The door swung open wider, revealing Magnus standing there, silent, and Charles felt his heart rise and his stomach sink simultaneously. It was not a comfortable feeling.  
“Good afternoon, Charles.” Magnus said, quietly. “May I come in?” Charles blinked, and swung his legs out of the bed covers.  
“Yes, si-” Magnus frowned slightly. “Yes, of course.” Charles said, rapidly. Magnus advanced into the room, a lean pillar of dark grey. Charles gulped. “I- I’m very _very_ sorry about, um, earlier, I didn’t realise, I haven’t, before and Mr Howlett was-

“Breathe, Charles.” Magnus said. Charles stole a swift glance at him, and saw that he was smiling. He relaxed, a little. Magnus continued, kindly.  
“I do _know_ Logan, and his incomprehensible taste for pressing strong liquor on those unsuited for it.”   
“Oh.” Charles said, hopefully. “But-“  
“But Sean does, too, and he should have done _something_ more than take you away before you threw up or passed out.” Magnus said, sternly.  
“Logan made him try the drink too.” Charles felt he ought to defend Sean. Magnus raised an eyebrow.  
“More fool him. He knew; you didn’t.” Magnus said, curtly.  
“Then I’m forgiven?” Charles dared to ask.  
“Nothing to forgive.” Magnus said, brushing aside the idea, and Charles’ apology, with one generous hand. He lifted the stool from the corner and placed it opposite Charles. He sat, and leaning forwards said, earnestly:  
“Now. I need to get one or two things clear, for your, your new _status_.” Charles blanched, partly from fear, and partly from nausea. Hastily, he grabbed at the handy and empty chamber pot. Magnus sighed.

“Not like that. I just need your word on something.” He tossed one of Josh Foley’s hangover remedies at Charles, who caught it, reflexively.  
"Court's physician." he said, helpfuly. Charles did not look at him.  
“My word?” Charles mumbled. Oh, of course. Free persons were believed, when they promised things. This was… it was almost as if Magnus trusted him, a little. He felt less sick. Carefully, he drank down the whole of the potion Magnus had passed him. It tingled on his tongue. Magnus started talking again.  
“If I reveal some things, I think you need to know them, but I must ask you to swear not to say anything-“ Charles dared to interrupt.  
“Of course, S- Magnus.” He said, warmly. “I swear.” Magnus smiled at him, and Charles was temporarily distracted.

“Um.” He said, eventually. “What am I swearing about?” Magnus grinned, wryly.  
“Well, firstly, my name is not Magnus Eisenhardt, and secondly, I’m not married to Magda- whose name is Moira by the way. We call ourselves those names only outside of Genosha. Understand?” his former owner said, briskly.  
“Yes.” Charles said, softly. He didn’t, but he knew what he was supposed to keep secret. “What’s your- how do I address you?” He asked, nervously.  
“My name is Erik Lensherr.” His liberator said, quietly. “I am one of the Swords of the Lady of Genosha.” Charles blinked, and nodded.  
“Do you recognise that title?” Erik prodded. Charles shook his head. “Guardian and servant to the heir to Genosha’s Throne.” Charles felt his jaw drop very slowly open. Erik chuckled, and reached over to push it closed again. His fingers felt very warm.

“Ah, is, um, m.m.Moira?” Charles began, stumbling slightly over names.  
“Yes, she is. We all are, we four.” Erik confirmed. His eyes stayed sharp and watchful. “Any questions?” Charles shook his head, immediately. It didn’t hurt as much. Surely Dr Foley must be Gifted, to have his medicines work so well.  
“No. You can… It’s your choice, what to, to, tell me. I won’t say any of it. Ever.” Erik’s eyes softened. He looked at Charles approvingly.  
“I can tell you that the trading was not our primary purpose; that was cover- which you aided magnificently, by the way.” Charles tried hard not to feel flattened by that. Of course, a slave was excellent cover for a trader in luxuries. Of _course_ , when that trader turned back into a knight returned from abroad, he’d have no need of a slave. Charles was lucky he'd made the token gesture of freeing him, instead of leaving him to be sold off in Whitehaven. He clutched the chamber pot again.

“So you acquired me by chance?” He tried to say it lightly, covering the hurt. Erik’s eyes narrowed again. Charles stared into the empty pot, and hunched his shoulders.  
“Chance meant our paths crossed, yes, and the trade cover meant we couldn’t turn your owner down, but once I- we saw you, who you were, it was obvious that the next step would be bringing you here, freeing you.” Erik said, slightly too quickly.   
“Thank you.” Charles smiled, weakly. He shouldn’t complain. Magnus- Erik didn’t _have_ to free him. It was going to cost him money and time, even if Charles was planning to pay him back later. As soon as he got a job. Charles bit his lip, worriedly. He had no idea how much longer the other four would put up with him, now. Erik cocked his head, curious at the rapid if indecipherable play of emotions over Charles’ face.

“I have a few questions about you I need to be able to answer for your citizen sponsors. I hope you don’t mind.” Charles nodded, accepting the apparent change in subject. Maybe Erik would explain more, later about what they’d been doing in Westchester, and maybe he wouldn’t. Charles could live with that.  
“It will be strange to have a country again.” he said, thoughtfully. Slaves had no country of their own, of course.  
“And a monarch.” Erik smiled. “King Darkholme is old, now, but he has a fine heir in the shape of his daughter.” Charles nodded, respectfully.  
“What was your mother’s name?” Erik said, quietly. He didn’t want to ask this, he wanted to leave these questions until Charles came to him and told him of his own accord, but as one of Charles’s sponsors, he had to know.  
“Sharon.” Charles answered, equally quietly. He wondered of his mother was still alive. Probably not, with the amount she’d been drinking before Kurt had sent him to the market.

“So, for your family name, you could go on the rolls as Charles Sharonson.” Erik said, thoughtfully. He began to fumble in his pocket for his notebook.  
 _“What?”_ Charles said, startled. He hadn’t thought that the Genoshans traced things through the mother’s bloodline, except in cases of bastardry.   
“Family name, surname.” Erik explained. “You have to have one, for the officials’ forms, so...” Charles shook his head.   
“Does it have to be my mother’s first name? What about my father?”  
“You know-“ Erik broke off in some confusion. “Yes, of course. What was his name?”  
“Brian Xavier.” Charles said, fondly. “He died when I was five.”   
“That sounds like a noble name.” Erik said, slowly. Charles Brianson had a ring to it. Erik looked interested, so Charles set aside the chamber pot and leant forwards to explain.

“The Xaviers were never that high blooded, but there was land, plenty of it, even if there wasn’t any title.”  
“Was… did your father care for your mother?” Erik asked, delicately. Charles wrinkled his nose, searching back to old memories long since buried.  
“He wouldn’t have married her if he didn’t feel something for her, I suppose. Then again, she did marry Kurt, afterwards, so” he shrugged “Who knows?”  
“Kurt?”  
“The not-so-charming man who sold me, so he and his son could inherit.” Charles said, bitterly.   
“He did _what?”_ Erik gasped.  
“Sent me to be exposed for sale in the market place. That’s an automatic disqualification from all forms of inheritance and family, you know.” Charles tried to moderate his tone. It was _dangerous_ to sound angry, his instincts insisted. “I don’t know if Cain had been told to _actually_ sell me, or if he was just feeling poor that day. But the trader offered him so much…”

“How old were you? Didn’t anyone stop him?” Erik said, angrily.  
“Thirteen. It was legal.” Charles said, staring at his hands. “And the trader took me away from the town immediately afterwards. I’ve never been sold back near there.”  
“Your sister couldn’t help?”  
“My sister?” Charles looked blankly at him for a minute, and them his face cleared. “Oh.” He tapped the pocket of his breeches that held his token. “I didn’t have a sister.” Suddenly, Erik saw his chance   
“Then how,” he said, gently, concealing the vast amount of his curiosity “Did you come across that?” Charles gave him an odd look  
“You’re very curious about that, you know.” Erik couldn’t think of a response that was safe and truthful, so he shrugged. Charles smiled, faintly.  
“Well.” He began, and at that moment, someone knocked on the door. Erik bit back a curse. Probably Moira, or Sean. Well, that wasn’t too bad.  
“Come in.” he called. The door opened. 

The person who stood on the threshold was neither Erik’s fake wife nor his fake niece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone care to speculate as to who's at the door? Let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets revealed; roaylty in disguise, and the difficulties of rewarding a hero who doesn't think that he is one.

Erik did not recognise the dark haired young man who stood in the doorway, until he sighed, and his blue eyes flashed into Raven’s distinctive yellow for a moment. Silently, they sated at each other for another minute, before Erik yielded to the inevitable, and the Lady his sword was sworn to. He stepped away from the door and bowed her into the room like a courtier. He pinched the bridge of his nose, wearily. Charles stood upright hurriedly, and backed away from the bed. Erik wasn’t sure why. Nerves, perhaps. He sighed, inwardly. The Princess had turned up on the doorstep of a common- if expensive- inn. In disguise. Before Erik had been able to question Charles further about his past.

_Fantastic._

Raven and Charles were staring at each other, warily. Charles still had his hand in his pocket, nervously fiddling with the damn token that had started the whole thing off.   
“H-hello.” Charles said, uncertainly. Raven looked at Erik, meaningfully. Erik set a chair for her, politely. She sat. Erik took the bed, and waved Charles to the other stool.  
“This man is Charles… Xavier.” He said, to Raven and was distracted by the astounded hope in Charles’s smile. But really, the man was a legitimate descendant of Brian Xavier; so that was his surname. What had Charles been _expecting_ to be called? Erik decided against revealing who Raven actually was, under her disguise, for the moment. He continued:  
“We acquired him in Westchester.” Charles’s smile dimmed. “He’s proved a valuable member of the team. It brightened again. Erik forced himself to stop watching Charles’ changing expressions, and turned to his Lady.

“May I enquire what you’re doing _here_ , of all places? It’s hardly secure, or suitable.” She flushed.   
“I can leave the room, if you want to talk with M- with Erik privately.” Charles said, quickly. Raven shook her head.  
“No, stay, please, it’s fine.” Charles nodded, and courteously bent his head, staring at his hands, in an attempt to give the Genoshans privacy. Erik snorted when he saw Charles was back to staring at his token again.  
“Uh, yes, well, I have news. About Lord Shaw and, well. Um.” Raven said. She turned to Charles. “Sorry, have we met before? You seem a bit… familiar.” 

Charles looked puzzled.  
“This is the first time I’ve been in Genosha in my life, sir. Unless you’ve been in Westchester-” He said, politely. Erik could see his shoulders tense up. Charles was gripping the Genoshan medal tightly in his right hand. Erik couldn’t understand what was troubling him. Raven was in disguise, so there was no chance of Charles recognising her.   
“Where did you get that?” Raven said, staring at the token. “That’s Genoshan work.”  
“This old thing?” Charles said, almost carelessly. “It was a reward from a friend.” Slowly, dreamily Raven said;  
“You can’t have been much of a friend if you needed a _reward_.”  
“ _He_ can’t have been much of a friend, to _offer_ one.” Charles said, in a slightly sing song, childish way. Then he blinked, as if he’d not intended to say that.

“It _is_ you, it’s you, and Erik _found_ you!” Raven gasped, dropped her disguise and folded Charles into her blue, blue arms. Charles made a choked off noise. Mutely, he rolled his eyes at Erik, pleading for escape, or an explanation. Erik was pretty sure what was going on; but he decided to let Raven do the talking. She was good at that.  
“I- what-” Charles said, stammering.  
“It’s me, it’s Raven! You hid me, remember? Your eyes are the same!” Raven said, happily. She hugged Charles more tightly for a moment. Erik began to worry about Charles’ air supply.  
“I don’t- Raven wasn’t blue- or a girl!” Charles choked out. “He was a boy, he was going to be my _little brother_ , he-” Charles pulled away from Raven, shaking his head.  
“I was _hiding!_ ” Raven snapped. “I have the Darkholme gift, I can do that.” Charles gaped.

“Look.” Raven said, impatiently, and flashed into half a dozen people before returning to her blue self. Charles kept staring. Raven grinned at Erik, and folded herself into one final form; a child’s. Erik didn’t recognise it; but Charles did. He lurched forwards, almost on his knees, and hugged her back. Raven beamed, delighted.  
“I’m sorry, it _is_ you. You _are_ my Raven.” Charles said. His eyes were overly bright. “I didn’t ever know what happened, you know? I just... I came back and you weren’t there. What happened, bird?”   
“I could ask the same.” Raven muttered, looking at him. “I found a Genoshan, in the street, when I went out. I knew her, she wasn’t part of the retinue, so I thought she was safe…”  
“What?” Charles said, bewildered.   
“My mother’s retinue; they turned on each other, we didn’t know who the traitor was…”  
“Your mother’s _retinue_?”

Charles was beginning to shake, Erik stood up.  
“You mean… you’re that Raven, too?” Charles had gone very pale, Erik noted, as he stepped towards him. Raven had gone a lighter shade of blue than he’d ever seen on her before.  
“Yes. I’m Raven Darkholme, too. You rescued a _princess_ , and you didn’t know it?” Raven said, defensively. “I never said, but I thought you realised. Why didn’t you come forwards?”  
“You were a boy.” Charles said, blankly. His knees gave way. Erik caught him before he hit the floor. Carefully, he eased him onto the bed, and pushed his head between his knees.  
“Keep breathing.” He suggested, gruffly. “Regular breaths and we can see about getting some food into you, maybe.” Raven laid a hand on his shoulder.  
“Why didn’t you come forwards?” Charles stared at her, tilting his head.  
“I didn’t think they were asking for me.” He shrugged, wryly. “I mean, I never realised you were a girl, so whoever helped the princess, it couldn’t have been me. I was only ten, and I wanted a brother, so I found one, for a bit.”

Erik grinned to himself. Only ten, and he’d outwitted the soldiers and searchers of two nations. For a month. Charles was still talking.  
“And my mother remarried not long after, and we went on a tour of the country estates, so by the time I was back in the city I had other things to think about.” His eyes darkened. Erik’s mood darkened with them. Presumably, his mother’s remarriage was to the man who sold him. And his step brother had _helped_. Raven reseated herself on the bed next to Charles. She took his hand in hers, lacing the fingers together and said, brightly  
“So how did you meet up with Erik? What made you throw in your lot with-” Charles flinched. He gazed at her, blankly.  
“Lady Raven, I’ve already made my preliminary report to you.” Erik said, stiffly. “I told you-” He had. Hadn’t the girl been listening?  
“You said you’d bought a slave to Genosha who needed to be freed, I-” Raven cut herself off, hands flying to her mouth in shock. She stared at Charles, who leaned away from her, staring at his hands.

“How did _you_ become a slave, Charles Xavier? What happened?”  
“My stepfather decided he liked my father’s money and lands more than he liked me, and my mother decided she liked alcohol more than she liked anything else.” Charles muttered to his hands. “And Cain decided he liked being able to pay off gambling debts more than he liked having a stepbrother.” He finished bitterly. Raven _snarled_. Erik blinked.  
“That’s it, I’m having them found and killed!” Charles’ head jerked up.  
“Um. Highness. Majesty. Please don’t do that.” Raven made a face.  
“Call me Raven. And why not?”  
“Westchester is a sovereign kingdom” Erik murmured. “They might object.” Raven waved that away. “Have you had supper, Highness?” He asked, pointedly, flicking his eyes at Charles, who was huddling into himself on the bed, still very pale.  
“That would be most welcome” Raven said, grandly, covering the moment. “Charles. Will you do me the honour of dining with us?” Charles blinked, slowly.

“I beleive." He said, slightly hoarsely. "The honour would be mine.” He stood, bowed as correctly as any courtier, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH THANK GOD.  
> Now nearly everyone in Team Genosha/Raven know the same things. Thank the lord. *falls over*


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a show. 
> 
> Well, supper, and some plotting, anyway.

Raven did not eat like a princess. Shifting made her hungry. Excitement made her hungry. The afternoon’s events had therefore created a roaring appetite that took quite some time to satisfy. Erik was used to it; he still found Charles’ slightly astounded looks amusing. Eventually even Raven was mostly full. She sat, cross legged on the bed, in the breeches and shirt of the young stranger she had presented herself to Erik as earlier, nibbling on sweetmeats. She looked very young. Charles, whose eyes were still wide with wonder when he looked at her, and at Erik, did not appear much older, the Sword thought. At least Charles was looking better than he had earlier. The combination of the poor man’s first real hangover with the realisation that his long ago token giver was a princess of Genosha had done him no favours. But a bowl of soup and Erik’s carefully selected snacks had gone a long way towards reviving him.

“And then, of course, on the east side, you have the Old Gardens.” Raven said, completing a fingernail sketch of the Palace grounds. Charles nodded. “That’s a good place for it. If we’re going to go the official route and publicly acclaim you as my rescuer, the old gradens are nice at this time of year.”   
“Which I think we should.” Erik said, firmly. “People might query it, but-“  
“We can always provide a mind reader to swear to the truth." Charles made a strangled noise. “It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt."Charles nodded, blank faced.  
"And they won’t look anywhere else in your head, if I tell them.” She said, reassuringly.  
“Your will, Highness.” Charles murmured. “If it is required.”  
“Oh! You’ll have to meet my dresser and tailors- they’ll have plenty of ideas for robes.” Charles made another slightly strangled noise. Raven glanced at him, quizzically. He managed a weak smile.

“Your rooms will hopefully be near my Sword’s quarters.” Raven continued, blithely, as she chewed on an apple.  
“My rooms?” Charles said, slowly. Erik smiled. He wanted to see Charles’ face, when the other man realised.  
“Yes, your rooms in the Palace, silly.” Raven said. “You rescued me, remember?” Charles nodded, slowly. “That makes you a hero of Genosha.” Erik said, helpfully. “And that means-“ He paused, drawing the moment out. His Lady interrupted it.  
“There was a reward named, at the time.” Raven said. “How much will it be, now?”  
Erik told her. 

Charles spat out his water, and was very glad he had refused any ale. His head was ringing.  
“ _How_ much?” he managed to gasp, eventually.  
“Oh. That's annually, of course.” Erik said. His eyes met Raven’s, and they both had to hide a grin. Charles looked delightfully befuddled. Of course, Erik realised, he had not realised his damsel in distress had actually been a damsel, let alone the only heir to a rich and proud throne. Still, he was relieved Charles was the man in question. Erik knew how easy it was to become seduced by power and wealth; he did not think Charles would be easily corrupted by either. And, if he was honest with himself, Erik liked Charles. It would be interesting to see what sort of a man the ex-slave turned courtier would become. He was clever, loyal, reliable- Raven would be a fool to let him slip through her fingers. Erik certainly intended to keep an eye on him. However, perhaps it was time to move the conversation on to other things. Charles looked as if he had been struck over the head.

"It's getting late." Erik said, finally. “May I enquire, Lady, as to where your courtiers _think_ you are?” She flashed Erik a quick grin.  
“I have withdrawn to my quarters for some private prayer and meditation, of course.” She made a pious face. Charles smiled. Erik restrained his impulse to sigh.  
“And what momentous news brings you here?” Raven made a face.  
“Lord Shaw has finally openly asked me to declare my Champion.” There was a pause, an angry one from Erik, and a puzzled one from Charles.  
“Ah.” Erik said, eventually. “He can’t do that.”  
“He has.” Raven said, grimly. “Even though it’s two years before I have to, even though Dad’s still alive... he has.”  
“Well then.” Charles said, calmly. “What do you want to do about that?

“Tell him to shrivel off and die.” Raven snapped. At Charles’s puzzled look, she explained “Shaw is Gifted. He doesn’t age. He's hundreds of years old.” Charles blinked, and nodded.  
“He’s powerful.” Erik murmured. “You shouldn’t antagonise him. Yet.”  
“Is your Champion your consort?” Charles asked delicately. Raven shook her head, snorting in laughter.  
“No. He or she is supposed to be the guardian of my children if I die, and my showy advisor when I’m Queen, so no foreign prince consort gets above themselves.”

Charles nodded, thoughtfully.   
“What are the rules?”  
“It’s for life. And like my Swords, they’re not allowed to marry. Binds their interest to the kingdom, not descendants.” She explained at Charles startled noise. “They’d have to be noble-born-” Raven began to tick them off on her fingers.  
“Which takes most of your Swords out of the situation.” Erik added, sourly.  
“Loyal, educated, politic and diplomatic…” Raven continued. “It’s a powerful position.”  
“Could you name someone to take up the post in two years time, if he pushes? And change your mind, later?” Erik and Raven shook their heads.

“So you couldn’t name someone totally unsuitable then?” Charles said, thoughtfully. Erik blinked, and began to grin.  
“No, but she could threaten to name someone who appeared unsuitable.” He said. “Then Shaw would either have to put up or shut up.”  
“Yes, of course.” Raven breathed, delightedly. “Charles, that’s _perfect_.” Charles beamed.  
“And I know exactly who to name.”   
“Oh?” Charles said, intrigued. Erik grinned wider. He thought he knew what was coming.  
 _ **“You.” ******_Raven said, triumphantly. Charles coughed. His eyes were wide. “Shaw won’t even suspect me of having a mind of my own; I’ve been talking of wanting to reward my rescuer” she smiled warmly at Charles, again- “For _years_. That’s just perfect.”

“I, I, I, um, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Charles quavered. “I’m- I was a _slave_.”  
“Noble born, though.” Erik said, brightly. Chalres looked terrified. “And do you want to get married right now?” he added, gently. Charles shook his head, dismissing the whole idea.   
“I’d- I’d be terrible. I don’t want to fail you, I’d-”  
“Charles, we’re not asking you to actually _become_ my Champion.” Raven said, laying a concerned hand on his arm. “Don’t panic. Shaw won’t tolerate you; no offence, but you’re not his puppet, and you're not Gifted.” Charles’s face twisted into bitter lines. His mouth opened.  
“But he wouldn’t be able to say she refused to name anyone.” Erik said, quickly.   
_“Please?_ ” Raven wheedled. “Charles Xavier? Would you do just this one thing more for me?”  
Charles was silent for a long moment. Erik bit his lip, holding his breath as Charles wrestled with himself.  
“I- Yes, Highness.” Charles said, finally. “If it is your will.” He swallowed. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end of Token Gesture Part One. Just one chapter to go, after this, and then... Another part of the story. Lots of it!
> 
> Please, dear readers, if you feel so moved, can you let me know what you loved/hated/ didn't get from this part, so I can address any dangling threads or plotholes in the second part? Help me make my writing more workable! Thank you.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles did not expect _this_.
> 
> Erik is sure he'll be fine.

Charles ran an uneasy finger under his new, tight neck cloth, and tried to concentrate on not sweating. He took a hurried few steps to the window, and gazed out, into the Palace courtyard below. As usual, it was a-swirl with people coming and going. Servants, lords and ladies, messengers, dogs and horses all wove through each other in a loud, odorous dance. He swallowed, nervously. Inwardly, a little voice was busy wailing _This wasn’t supposed to happen!_ Charles had not expected that Raven’s selection of him as Lady’s Champion would have this result. He was supposed to be the _hopeless_ candidate; the one who forced Lord Shaw to stop pressuring Raven. That had been the plan they’d hit on, a month ago. That was the plan that had _not_ worked out as intended. 

Instead, Lord Shaw’s faction had accepted Raven’s choice. After meeting Charles, and examining him more thoroughly- if less physically- that he’d ever been in the marketplace, of course. The knowledge of Charles’s previous life as a slave was now an open secret; at least Charles did not intend on keeping it a secret; even if several of the lords and ladies had congratulated Charles on his “survival” and promised to be “discreet” about it. Charles doubted they were being truthful, but he found it hard to care about that when there were so many more urgent things to worry about. Defender of the Queen to be, counsellor and friend- that was his new role. Charles just hoped he would not disappoint Raven too badly. His pale reflection in the glass of the window looked back at him sceptically. Charles squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. The new, long coat he was wearing just about allowed him to do that. He smoothed a hand over the delicate fabric.  
“You look just right.” Erik said, from behind him. Charles jumped, slightly.  
“E-erik! I didn’t hear you come in!” His friend smiled, but his eyes were sharp as he searched Charles’ face.  
“I noticed. Getting used to your surroundings?” Charles shook his head, dumbly.  
“You will.” Erik said, serenely. Charles looked at him. Erik was also dressed in Court wear; a knee length open coat, fine waistcoat and breeches, and white, starched neckcloth.

“I did.” Erik said. “So you likely will too.”  
“Erik, this wasn’t what was going to happen!” Charles said, urgently, as Erik stepped closer to him. “I was supposed to be the completely inappropriate candidate!”  
“True.” Erik grinned. “But you don’t get to be Queens’ Champion until she actually is Queen, you know.” Charles made a face. “Plenty of time to practice. How’s your swordwork?” Charles made another face. Erik laughed. He put his hands on Charles’ shoulders, reassuringly. “Look, the main thing is the Queen’s Champion will not be Lord Shaw again, or one of his creatures, right?”  
“Right.” Charles said, slowly.  
“And that the person in question is completely loyal to Lady Raven, right?  
“Right.” Charles echoed.  
“And that person has to be able and reliable, right?”

“Right.” Charles said, through numb lips. “So?”  
“So don’t you think, Charles Xavier, that you do meet those criteria?” Erik said, lightly. He tightened his grip, shaking Charles slightly, as if to shake the doubts and fears out of him by force. Charles smiled, and ducked his head, looking away from Erik’s too-sharp grey eyes. Erik chuckled, and released him.  
“Hey.” Erik said, curling his finger’s around Charles’ jaw, forcing him to meet Erik’s eyes. “I know you can keep Raven safe. You were able to do that when you were ten.”  
“Yes.” Charles said, slowly. “Anyway, it’s all just for show, really, isn’t it?” He tugged at his sleeves. The full lace that spilled from them made his wrists itch.  
“Don’t do that, you’ll pull the embroidery.” Erik chided him.

“I don’t know why I have to be dolled up like this, anyway.” Charles said, moving towards the table and chairs set out.  
“You’re a noble by birth, Charles. You have to dress the part.” Erik said, following him.  
“I don’t care. First thing I’m going to do when the ceremony is over, is get hold of a decent knitted tunic or two.” Charles said, decisively. “And maybe a looser, plainer shirt.”  
Erik laughed, as he sank into a chair.  
“Knitted?” he said, amused. “Like a grandmother’s shawl?”  
“Warmth and comfort!” Charles said. “And it gives valuable work to women with children and men, too, without the workers having to spend vast amounts on equipment or production areas.”  
“You see?” Erik said, smiling. “You’re starting already.”

 

Healer Foley bustled in, golden skin glowing brightly.  
“Ah, Sword Erik, would you mind waiting outside? I’m supposed to conduct this examination in private.” he said, politely but very firmly. Erik stood, slowly, reluctantly.  
“It’s mostly a formality.” Foley said, reassuringly. Erik looked at him, warningly. Charles twitched. He hated being examined, being touched by curious hands, bare skin. It was odd how much harder some things became, as a free man, than far worse experiences had been when he was a slave, with no choice but to endure. Firmly he reminded himself that this would be different.

“I’ll be right outside, Charles.” Erik said, gazing meaningfully at Foley. “I won’t be prying, but if you want me? You just have to yell.” He strode out as Foley moved towards Charles.  
“Sword Charles?” Foley said, gently. Charles looked at him. “You know that I hold any information my patients give me in complete confidence.” Charles nodded, and stood.  
“I do have to assure the Council and the current Champion that you are sound in mind, wind, and limb.” Foley continued, soothingly, as he helped Charles ease the tight new coat off his shoulders. “But anything else is strictly private.”  
“I- That’s good to know.” Charles said, haltingly, as he began to unlace his shirt. “I don’t- I haven’t-“  
“Believe me, sir, I am aware of the rumours.” Foley said dryly. “All the rumours. Is it true you only have one leg, and you can fly?” Charles chuckled, hoarsely.  
“Surely you’d be able to tell, with your Gift?” Foley smiled, shaking his head.  
“I’m afraid I have to touch you for that to work.” Once Charles had his shirt off, Foley took him by the shoulders and turned him round. Charles set his jaw, and concentrated on keeping his spine straight. Charles stood, and bent, and sat as Foley directed, clinging to the here and now by the skin of his teeth. 

Foley kept up a running stream of commentary- observations about the court; the weather, the latest fashions that Charles had been forced into by Raven’s tailors- that Charles did not have to respond to. They helped. The healer’s touch was light and his voice was gentle. That helped, too, but Charles was still sweating as he pulled his shirt back on, fumbling with the ties as his hands felt clammy and numb.  
“May I?” Foley said, still very gentle. Shakily, Charles nodded. Slowly, carefully, the Healer began retying the laces of Charles’ shirt.  
“I’m sorry.” Charles blurted, apologising to the top of Foley’s bent head.  
“There’s no need to apologise.” He said. “I do know of your past; and... I’m a doctor, Charles. This is what I do.” Josh Foley straightened, with a final twitch at the shoulders of Charles’ shirt.

“Now, sir, would you hear the verdict?” he said, dramatically, entertainingly. Charles nodded and smiled, faintly as he sank into a chair. Foley sat down, and, after a pause to gather his thoughts, began.  
“I shall speak bluntly.” He steepled his fingers, carefully focusing on them. Charles was glad he was able to avoid looking him in the eye. “You have obviously sustained some injuries and damage from your previous life, but there is nothing that makes me think you are physically incapable of defending your Princess to your dying breath.” He made a short nod. “I will so speak to the Council.” Charles blinked.  
“And, ah, mentally?” he said, cautiously.  
“Oh, that too.” Josh waved a hand. “You may wish to think about changing certain... patterns of thought, but you know right from wrong, up from down, and how many beans make five, as the saying goes.”

“That’s good.” Charles said. “Um... may I ask about the patterns of thought at another time, perhaps? Erik will be fretting.” And he didn’t really want to think about his slave habits now.  
“Sword Lensherr will give us all the time we need, if he knows what’s good for him. But yes.” Foley said. Charles looked unconvinced. The healer leant forwards in his chair and said “Charles, this is about your health. Erik can wait. I want to talk to you about your Gift.” Charles reared back as if he’d been slapped.  
“I don’t have a Gift!” he said, urgently. Foley was equally insistent.  
“Yes, you do.”  
“The shaking fever, I had it as a child-“ Charles said, again urgently.  
“And it did a great deal of damage, but nothing that cannot be reversed, with time, and my medicine, and hard work.” Foley said, calmly. “You were a mind reader, correct?”  
“Yes.” Charles whispered. 

“You will be again.” Foley said, calmly. “If you want to be.”  
“Yes.” Charles whispered again, staring.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with a champion. Full of subtlety and, well, Shaw.

Charles moved from his chair to stare out of the window again. Everything just kept getting bigger. Every time he thought he could get grasp on his life, find a solid place to stand for a short while, things _changed_. Even when they changed for the better, it was entirely disorientating. Beneath him, a huntsman went past with a pack of hounds, all belling and running around, like Charles’ thoughts. Charles had been a slave. He’d been able to survive. Then he’d been a slave with kind masters. He’d been able to cope with that, too. Then, suddenly, then he was a free man again, which had been strange, and wonderful. Apart from the hangover.

Then he’d been found to be a long lost hero, and then he’d been accidentally raised to a high position, one that brought a title and money and duties to his door. And now he might even get his telepathy back. Charles didn’t know how he felt about that. He’d lost it when he was seven; and his mother had been vaguely pleased he had; she’d never been very comfortable with it. Or him. A troop of soldiers went past, on horses. They looked a fine, disciplined bunch. Charles found himself squinting, trying to read rank ribbons and uniform insignia.  
“They’re the King’s Own.” A voice said behind him. 

Charles turned sharply to see Lord Shaw smiling at him. He repressed a shiver. Something about the man disturbed him. Perhaps it was the way his smooth skin sat handsome features despite him being “centuries old”. Perhaps it was the too-bright glint that appeared in his eyes when he looked at Charles, sometimes. The look of a man trying to decide whether to buy or to sell. Charles had seen it before. Too many times, it had been directed at him.  
“Lord Shaw.” He said, and bowed, smoothly, resurrecting dusty memories of court etiquette lessons from his childhood.   
Shaw’s eyes narrowed, and then he smiled, warmly, and bowed in return.  
“Sebastian, my dear boy- We Royal Champions don’t need formality, do we?” Charles smiled, politely.

“Oh, I’m hardly even Champion elect yet, sir. May I offer you wine?” he said, strolling away from the window, and hoping Erik or Moira or someone came along quickly to rescue the situation. Shaw showed off his teeth in a hearty laugh, and sat, carelessly. Charles poured out two glasses of wine from the decanter on the side board, and handed one to Shaw. He sat down himself then, before Shaw could thank him like a servant, or order him to sit or stand, like a subordinate. His knees felt a little shaky.  
“I understand our good Dr Foley has given you a clean bill of health.” Shaw said, invitingly. Charles nodded, calmly, concealing the turmoil Foley’s last offer had caused.  
“Yes, indeed.” A small silence fell. 

Shaw drank off half his wine. Charles sipped. He did not intend a repeat of the infamous Logan Event, if he could help it. Shaw clapped his hands on his thighs, and leaned forwards.  
“I was uncertain about Lady Raven’s wisdom, in choosing you, before.” He said, bluntly. Charles felt himself grow warier. He looked politely interested.  
“You see, I was sure, a _slave_ would not have the characteristics the Queen would need in her Champion.” Charles nodded, solemnly. That had rather been the _point_ of Raven’s choice, although he could hardly say so. “But then I heard you had rescued her before.” Shaw said, laughing slightly. “A boy genius!”

“Oh, hardly that. Sir.” Charles said, demurely. “A lonely well born child meets another in the street and makes a friend- that’s hardly heroism, is it?” He could still remember how very scared the child-Raven had been, until they’d got off the streets. He’d assumed it was because the area was so rough. Charles had gone there for the old bookseller’s goods. He’d made sure his clients weren’t troubled by people from the area, by methods Charles preferred not to think about. Shaw’s lips tightened. He looked irritated.  
“Still, I imagine the court, the nobility must be very new to you?” he said. “You should feel no shame if your past life means your education is a little… _lacking_ , in some areas.”   
“All of Genosha is new to me. I’m finding it amazing.” Charles said, brightly. “Sir.”

He paused, and drew a deep breath.  
“And, as for slavery? I feel any shame should be felt by the slave owners and sellers. Not the slaves. _Sir_.” He smiled, tightly. Shaw’s nostrils widened as he fought to keep the genial mask on his face.  
“Yes- even as one of the unGifted, you understand the fears the Gifted have, of being helpless. Trapped. At some else’s… mercy. As has happened before, in Genosha.” Shaw breathed in steadily. “How much hatred do you hold, in your heart of hearts, for your former captors?” Shaw’s eyes gleamed brightly. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips.Charles fought to avoid shrinking back in his seat. Shaw looked hungry, for some unnameable thing, in a way that sickened him.

“I don’t think I do” he said, carefully. Shaw looked sceptical. “Hate is so very wearing on the soul.” Charles said, earnestly. “And besides- I was legally enslaved. It’s hard to hate a whole country.” He gave Shaw a thin, tight smile. “My past is over. I don’t intend to revisit it. I’m more interested in the future.” Shaw looked discomforted. _Time to change the subject._  
“I understand your Gift is that of eternal youth?” Charles said, carefully. “Lady Rave. said you possessed the wisdom of centuries-“  
“The sorry tale of Genosha’s history is why I have always counselled that the Champion should be Gifted, if possible. I’m only two hundred and forty.” Shaw protested mildly. “And I suspect Raven phrased it far less flatteringly.” His lips quirked in a rueful grin. 

“As her Champion to be, my first and only loyalty must be to my future Queen, Sebastian. I cannot say _one word_ on the matter.” Charles said, smiling.  
“I am afraid she has never forgiven me for the death of her mother. It occurred on my watch, you know. Speaking of _shame_ ” Charles did his best not to reveal he already knew that. Lord Shaw was not a man he ever wanted to show weakness to.  
“Is that why you supported her choice?” Charles said, innocently. He widened his eyes under Shaw’s fierce stare. But certainly, he needed to know some of the reasons Shaw was willing to speak of.

“I was sure she would choose a wise man.” Shaw murmured, sipping at the rest of his wine.   
“One willing to learn from those he followed.” He added, pointedly. “I have been King’s Champion for many years, Charles. I know the family, the court, the country. I love them well. Please never be reluctant to ask for guidance from me.”  
“Knowledge is a treasure.” Charles said, ambiguously. “Only a great fool leaves treasure abandoned in the street.” Shaw’s eyes cut at him again; yes, he knew the second part of that saying: _Only the greatest of fools keeps what he finds unexamined._  
“Indeed.” Shaw said, heavily.  
“More wine?” Charles said. Shaw hauled himself out of his seat, and clapped Charles on the shoulder, hard enough to bruise, pinning him to the seat.  
“No need, my young... _hero_. No need.” He smiled down at Charles, whitely. Charles swallowed, nervously.

“It’s good to see Lady’s Raven’s care in such hands as yours. _Charles_.” Shaw murmured, softly. “I say this as King’s Champion, you understand. But-” The door opened. Charles resisted the temptation to sag in sheer relief as he saw Erik and the Princess come through. Shaw straightened, hastily, and bowed low towards Raven. Charles breathed out.  
“My Princess!” Shaw ignored Erik completely.  
“King’s Champion.” Raven said, gracefully. “Do you still support my choice?”  
“I do indeed.” Shaw said, warmly. “I shall go and prepare the Council.” He bowed low, once more, and left, brushing past Erik as if the Sword was not there at all.

Charles let out a long sigh, and sagged in his chair.   
“Are you all right, Charles? Lady Frost delayed me in the corridor, else I’d- we’d have been here sooner.” Erik said, worriedly. Charles smiled.  
“I’m fine. Goodness, but that man is unsettling.” Raven moved towards Charles and hugged him, gently. Charles tense in surprise at first, but then as Raven refused to release him, he relaxed into her embrace, laying his head on her shoulder.  
“He meant to be.” Erik stepped towards them and rested his hand on Charles’ arm.   
“Time for the song and dance part.” Raven said, slowly.  
“Are you ready for this?” Erik asked Charles, in concern.  
“Let’s find out.” Charles said.  
Erik grinned.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the story ends. Happily. 
> 
> Or does it, rather, begin?

Erik raised his voice and called out:  
“Sire. Highness. My Lords and Ladies of the King’s Council. King’s Champion.” The murmuring crowd hushed, slowly. Charles noted Erik’s sly insult, in naming Shaw after all the other dignitaries. Absently, as he bowed low to the assembled crowd, and then to the King, Charles worried about it. It did Erik no good to show his dislike of Shaw, however justified, so openly. Shaw merely kept grinning, tightly. By her father’s side Raven drew herself up, sitting on her smaller chair as if it too, was a throne. Her red hair looked like a flaming torch. 

Charles bit his lip and fought down the temptation to fidget with his neck cloth or cuffs again. Now he was in plain sight, he needed to act with all the dignity of his putative position in the King’s Court. Charles looked at the richly dressed crowd, and tried not to panic. He glimpsed Moira, standing near the dais, and felt a little better. One of the guards ranging along the walls coughed, deliberately. Charles glanced sideways and saw a strangely clean and sober Logan standing at attention

“I present to you all, here assembled, My Lady’s Chosen Champion.” Erik said, still more loudly. There were further murmurs. Gradually, the assembly shuffled into a vague order, leaving a clear path between the door and the dais. Charles squared his shoulders and progressed slowly though the Council to kneel before Raven’s chair, on the dais. She put her hands out to him, pressing them together at the fingertips. Charles slipped his hand inside her sheltering fingers, and waited. Silence fell. The King coughed, lightly.  
“Daughter.” He said, formally. “Is this man your choice, and judged acceptable?”  
“Yes, Sire.” Raven said, clearly. She flashed a tiny smile at him, and the old man’s face softened.

“Young man.” The King said, gently. Charles looked up, startled. This hadn’t been part of the rehearsals. “Is it your will to guide and protect my daughter?”  
“Always, sire.” Charles said, fervently. “With _or_ without the title.” He blinked. The king let out a rusty chuckle.  
“Then let the Champion be sworn.” He said, and coughed again. He looked tired. Raven glanced at him, and then began to speak the words of the Champion’s Oath.  
“Will you swear your loyalty to me?” She said, clearly.  
“Now, and always, Highness.” Charles said, more softly.

“Will you swear your obedience to me?” Raven said, smiling.  
“As long as it protects you, I am obedient to your will and wishes.” Charles said, calmly. Raven raised an eyebrow.  
“Will you swear your service to me?”  
“All the days of my life.” Charles breathed. Raven frowned, slightly, and made a tiny gesture indicating he needed to speak up.  
“Will your forswear marriage and children for me?” Raven’s hands tightened around Charles. This was the moment. He had sworn the other vows; this was the final one. 

This was the moment that made him Raven’s Champion-to-be. He raised his voice, and said, firmly.

“For your sake and for the sake of your Realm, yes.” There. _Done_. And, he thought, a little wildly, the celibacy shouldn’t be too much of a struggle. It wasn’t as if as a slave, he had ever enjoyed… not being celibate, after all. Then Erik spoke the final words of the ceremony  
“Your name, sir?”  
“I am Charles Xavier” Charles said.  
Erik caught his eye more fully, and smiled. Charles felt a faint, regretful pang. He took one step backwards, away from Raven. Erik grasped his shoulders, and guided him down one step, before spinning him round to face the assembly.  
“Charles Xavier!” Erik called to the room. A lone whoop came from somewhere in Logan's vicinity. It sounded like Sean.

The crowd’s replying shout rang from the rafters:

_**“CHARLES XAVIER!” ** __****_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord, that got long. Rest assured, my noble readers, I am now hard at work on the second part of this tale, wherein there should be thrills, spills, plotting, action, swashbuckling, the fantasy equivalent of therapy for the traumatised, and Charles rediscovering his inner Bamf. Also, quite possibly, porn. *bites nails, nervously.*
> 
> Did you like this? Hate it? Let me know if there's anything you'd like to see happen in the next part. Also, suggestions for names for the second bit are solicted. I'm terrible at naming my stuff.


End file.
